


Brynhilda's Saga

by brightlycoloredteacups



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlycoloredteacups/pseuds/brightlycoloredteacups
Summary: When she's betrayed by those she loves, Brynhilda sets out on a path of revenge. It will take her time, but she always wins, no matter the cost.





	1. Sacrifice

They say that being Blood Eagled is the greatest pain one can experience. It’s so brutal, men and women both have cried, fainted, vomited. No one can look for long, not even the most hardened warrior. The flesh of the back is cut open, ribs are broken, and finally lungs pulled out and displayed. The sufferer looks like an eagle when it’s done. If there’s a cry, or scream, entrance to Valhalla is denied. Hel opens her gates and welcome her new resident.

            Brynhilda disagrees, the worst pain anyone can go through is betrayal. To put all your trust in those that fight next to you. To love your shield-siblings, do all that you can to honor and respect your gods. To fight for someone, to love someone as if they were of your own flesh, your own blood. To live and breathe solely for them, for ten years, and it all have been for naught. This is the greatest pain one can suffer.

            She sits in darkness, for how long, she can’t say. It doesn’t matter. The rats keep her belly full, spiders keep her company. When the door opens, it’s as though she’s entering battle. A sense of calm washes over her, she knows the gods and her ancestors walk with her. Odin and Freyja smile down on her, surely fighting over who gets to keep her.

            As she is unchained, and led into the fire light, she keeps her head high. Her steps are steady, her breathing even. She makes sure to look into the eyes of every man and woman responsible for this. The Jarls could’ve intervened on her behalf, but save for a few halfhearted protests, they have done nothing. She looks at the Volva, who suggested this sacrifice. Finally, she looks to her king, who listens only to his ego. They will all come to regret this day.

            Her king can’t bear to hold her gaze, he is guilty. She lets her cloak drop, now bare from the waste up. It’s the beginnings of winter, but she hardly feels the chill. She’s too hurt, too angry. She kneels, head still proudly cocked, places her wrists between the spines of the antlers, and readies herself for what is to come. In the distance, she hears the call of a crow. Through all the hurt, she can still find some happiness. Odin is watching, he is proud.

            Her king gives a short speech about regret and honor. He doesn’t know the meaning of such words. This is unavoidable, he says, but Brynhilda, his favorite shield maiden, the strongest woman he ever met, will have a good death today. She will no doubt enter the halls of Valhalla and be embraced warmly by Odin.

            She does not move as her king begins. The blade slices through the flesh easily enough, blood running down to pool at her knees. She breathes through it, reminds herself that she has been shot with arrows and cut by swords. Her bones have been broken, she has been beaten. This is nothing. He places a steadying hand on her shoulder when the cut is finished. When he squeezes, that’s when she knows her ribs will break.

            The only time she moves is when she receives the force of the blows. She makes no sound; the witch will not win. She has been counting, one, two, three, and knows when he is on the last rib. This is when she becomes weak. The pain in her heart, in her back, it overwhelms her. She weeps silently. She sags between the antlers, the will to hold herself up flees from her bones. Her king ties her to them. He will finish this; she will die today.

            His hands are in her back, ready to pull her ribs apart when the screaming begins. At first, through her haze, she thinks it’s her voice crying to the heavens. Her heart doesn’t get the time to sink with the realization of her failure before she understands she isn’t the one screaming. Things happen slowly for her. The crowd around her scatters, the Jarls jump to their feet, pulling out weapons. It is in attack. No, she tells herself, an opportunity.

            She begins to struggle against her binds, cursing her frailty. The king abandons his duties to fight. The opposing army is one she recognizes; she’d been fighting this force since she was a child. The battle is over quickly; the opposing force having won the night. She has struggled all the while. She can’t break free, panic sets in, what if she is never free? Two men step before her, watch her struggle. They debate whether they should kill her or not. They eventually decide to leave her.

            Just before she loses consciousness, she hears a raven caw. She sends thanks to Odin, for surely he has provided this opportunity. She will live to fight another day, to reap her revenge, to love once again. She will live.  


	2. New Beginning

Though the Seer makes her uncomfortable, Aslaug knows he’s a man that deserves her utmost respect. It’s the face, she determines, that upsets her. It’s so scarred and ugly. Despite all that, he is the most holy man in all of Kattegat and she is the queen. They both have certain duties. Hers is to invite him to the feast celebrating a prosperous harvest, his is to show up and tell stories. He tells the old stories with flare, it’s hard not to get wrapped up in them.

            The party has since died down. Most people have either passed out on the floor, the tables, or have gone home. Only her sons remain with her, nursing their last flagons of ale. Ivar has been pressing him to tell a story the entire evening, but tonight, the Seer is in no mood for it.

            “At least tell someone’s future.” Ivar presses. “Tell my future, will I be a great warrior, like my father?” Aslaug watches as the Seer moves his head towards her son. “The gods show me only one future tonight.” He breathes quietly. “And it is not yours.”

“Well then who’s, is it?” Ivar snaps. Aslaug gives him a warning look. This is the Seer after all, he should show some respect. The Seer takes his time answering, lifting his head as though he were listening to the silent whispers of the gods themselves. “She is a dead woman come back to life.”

“The dead can’t come back to life.” Sigurd scoffs. Ubbe nudges him. “I don’t think the Seer means it literally.” He mutters. He leans in, however, interested in the prophecy. “Continue?” His tone is polite, and though the Seer can’t see it, he smiles. “Her rage is endless, brought upon by the pain of betrayal. She is but a wraith that walks towards Kattegat, the singular thought of revenge on her mind.”

“Does she mean us harm?” Aslaug whispers, terrified of this woman already. The Seer turns to her, smiling. “You are no enemy of hers.” He stands, a little stiff with the cold that has entered his joints. “The gods are interfering personally with her life. This happens once in a few generations. I am lucky to have seen it happen twice.” He looks pointedly at Ivar who seems confused. As he walks from the feast hall, he parts with the last words; “I’d be prepared for her if I were you. She’s quite the storm.”

*

Brynhilda can’t remember how it happened or when it happened, but she was buried. She remembers her hands slipping from their binds. She remembers crawling around desperately for food and drink. She remembers curling up in the roots of a tree to sleep. But when she awakens, it is to a lack of air.

            The grave she’s placed in is a shallow one.  The gravediggers were lazy. Not only did they leave her hand poking out, they only threw a shallow layer of dirt over her. She begins to claw at the mud in a blind panic, needing to see, needing to breathe. She rises from her grave with a screech. She gasps for breath, choking on the grit lodged in her throat.

            She scrambles from her grave, sobbing with fear. The dead have always made her uncomfortable, but to be buried among them terrifies her. When she’s finally free of the muck, she turns on her back, chest heaving. The gentle rain is cold on her skin, she soon begins to shiver. She takes the time to catch her breath. Staring at the sky, she prays, to both her parents’ gods to give her the strength to see her plans through.

            Sitting up, she reaches for the ring on her finger, relief flooding her when she finds it’s still there. She stands on shaky legs, nearly collapsing from the pain in her back. She’s still in the field she was blood eagled in, still naked from the waist up. She clutches at her shoulders and begins to make her way across the field, going the opposite direction the army was chased in. Less of a chance to run into trouble.

            Slow, jerky movements coupled with the mud clinging to her skin and her emaciated appearance makes it look as though she’s a draugr off to haunt someone. She reaches the tree line, and begins looking for a source of water. It’s hard to concentrate when all she wants to do is lie down and sleep. With every stumble, it gets harder to get back up. Eventually, she stops to lean on tree, needing to get her bearings. That’s when she hears the humming.

            She watches silently as an old man pops up from the long weeds of grass. He’s facing away from her, so of course he doesn’t see her watching him. He totters on, picking weeds and mushrooms, most likely for his dinner. “Excuse me?” She calls, finally deciding that he can’t be that dangerous. The old man yelps and whips around, holding his axe in the air. She’s too tired to even go on the defensive. “I need some help.” She explains. “Oh, I bet you do,” the old man snaps. “You need to be helped to my home so you can rob me blind and kill me I bet.”

“N-no,” She tries to push herself off the tree but can’t. “I was just,” she shakes her head, trying to clear the fog. “I was just in a battle,” she doesn’t get the rest of it all out before her knees buckle underneath her. Her vision swims as she reaches for the old man. He doesn’t come to her as she falls into a faint.

*

            The old man had to admit, the girl was a good actor. Covered in mud, half naked, and fainting like that. All he does is chuckle and prepare himself for an attack. Five minutes go by, ten. Smiling triumphantly, he walks up to the girl, ready to kick her ‘awake’ and tell her the plan didn’t work. As he gets closer, moving cautiously along the way, he sees something’s off about her. He’s inches away from her now, and he’s staring, trying to figure out what’s wrong about the picture.

            He backs away in disgust when he sees the maggots. He steels himself and takes another look. The wound is so deep he can see her spine. That’s when he realizes who she is. He was hiding in the woods when he saw the sacrifice. She’d born herself upon the altar with dignity like he’d never seen. Everyone around her seemed either to regret what was happening, or to fear the consequences. The Blood Eagling had been carried out with the utmost reverence until an opposing army attacked. That that happened two weeks ago, by his account.

            “You are certainly a lucky one,” He mumbles. He shoulders his basket and puts his axe back into his belt. Bending down and hooking his arms under hers he begins to drag her back to his hut. The old man is stronger than he looks, he’s able to make it back into his hut quickly. “Dagmar!” He yells to his wife. “Dagmar!” The old woman slams the door open. “Eysteinn Eysteinnsson you had better be yelling for me for a good reason!”

“Get a healing paste ready, and start dinner, make sure there’s enough broth to go around.”

“What in Odin’s name-” She stops as he drags Brynhilda up the steps to his home. “What is that?” She steps aside to let him drag Brynhilda into their hut. He settles the girl by the hearth and rushes about the home. “Eysteinn, who is that?”

“Never mind that, she’s hurt, and close to death. Come, quickly, start dinner, and clean her, and get something warm to put on her.” Dagmar doesn’t argue, she knows better when her husband uses his irritated tone with her. She’s was just beginning to put vegetables and meat into the pot when her husband began to yell at her like a mad man. It’s the first task she finishes.

            She’s just rushing from the home for clean water from the nearby river when Eysteinn leans down to inspect the girl. It was grim work. It wasn’t just maggots that had taken root into her flesh, but worms and beetles as well. He removed them all carefully, throwing them into the fire when he caught them. There was nothing he could do for her ribs but adjust them and hope they healed properly. He made a mental note to put her on a stiff board that would keep her back straight. As for the wound itself, all he could do was clean it, put a paste on it, and make sure it didn’t rot.

            Dagmar places the bucket of water beside him. They both set to work. They’re gentle with Brynhilda while they cleaned her. When they’re done, Dagmar holds the sticks Eysteinn wraps with bandages. It will help keep the girl’s back straight as she heals.  

            Over dinner, they stare at her, expecting her to awaken at any moment. “We are too old to take care of this child husband.” Dagmar whispers. “We won’t last the winter, and neither will she.” Eysteinn chuckles. “We are but fifty, wife. We have years left in us.” Dagmar huffed, spooning more soup into her mouth. “She will bring trouble.”

“I don’t think anyone knows she’s here.”

“Husband,” Dagmar growls. “Hush now Daggy,” He says, kissing her cheek. “Everything will be fine, I promise. The girl will live. Today starts a new beginning for us, and you should be grateful.” Dagmar huffs but seems placated by her husband’s words. Perhaps he was right, perhaps this was a new beginning.


	3. Dreams

            Dagmar’s prediction almost comes true. Brynhilda barely clings to life during the winter months. Her wound starts healing with little trouble, but an infection settles into her lungs, things spiral for the girl there. All winter long she lays by the hearth, coughing, shivering, barely keeping food down. Eysteinn keeps a careful watch over her. It irritates Dagmar. They should just throw the girl out and leave her to the wolves. Wasting all their precious resources on someone who won’t live to see spring is a foolish thing to do.

            One night, as she and her husband are lying in bed, tired after love making, she says as much to her husband. A bad mood as settled over their home thanks to Brynhilda, so his resultant growl to her quip is no surprise. “Hush woman! For once, feel with your heart rather than think with your head.” Dagmar merely sniffs and rolls over. Eysteinn begins to kiss her shoulders, trying to soothe his irritated wife. “The gods walk with this child.” He explains. “They are testing her, seeing if her will to survive is strong enough. Great plans have been set in motion for her. It is our duty to help her.”

“Oh? And how do you know the gods watch over her so carefully?” She snaps. “Do you not know who lies in our home Wife?” Eysteinn continued to argue. She stays silent. “I do, the last time I went to the village I asked about the army that set up in our forest all those weeks ago. That was the Army of King Boggvir. He was one of the last Kings to stand against Harald.” Dagmar sits up, looking at her husband in disbelief.

“Yes, we have Boggvir’s own shieldmaiden in our home.”

“Impossible!” Dagmar hisses. “Brynhilda can’t be killed, she is deathless.”

“Just because one is deathless doesn’t mean they can’t come close to death. Even the All-Father has suffered.”

“I don’t believe you.” Dagmar says, settling back down into the furs. “It can’t be Brynhilda. She is with Boggvir, they are planning their next raid. Boggvir wouldn’t be so stupid as to sacrifice his best warrior. The girl will die in a few days, and I will be accepting your apology.”

“Come Spring,” Eysteinn says, laughing, “I will be accepting _your_ apology.”

*

            Brynhilda continues to flow in and out of consciousness. Her dreams are ever changing, ever terrifying.

She’s in Helheim, having succumbed to the sickness ravaging her body. Hel points and laughs at her as Brynhilda sits at a table with the old and infirmed. Everyone mills about. Looking so dispassionate and bored. Her will to fight has left her being, so she does nothing more than sit about. A wraith surrounded by rotted foods.  

            She is back on the altar, hands tied to the arm rests made of antlers.  This time, her king manages to finish the job. She is so close to the Gates of Valhalla when she cries out. The Gates shut before her, she spends eternity on Midgard, weeping, looking for those gates. The gods laugh at her for making such lofty vows, then failing.

The one that terrifies her most is the one that serves as her motivator. She is buried again. This time, it’s a proper burial. Her weapons are laid at her feet, the gold she acquired through her lifetime spread all around her. She is dressed in the best funerary garb, the Knot of the Slain sewn plainly onto the chest of her clothing. She knows instinctively that the knot isn’t meant to signify her death, but to prevent her from rising from the grave. The Sleep Thorn is carved into oak and laid underneath her head as well. A spell to keep her asleep forever.

Boggvir and the Jarls stand around her grave, sending silent prayers to Odin to keep her in the ground. She smiles, they’re fools. The magic behind the symbols is weak, her will too strong. She will rise despite the precautions taken.

She watches as the month’s pass, her body is rotting under the dirt. Winter buys Boggvir time, allows him a false sense of security. He forgets about Brynhilda, settled into his life, with a wife and a child.

            When the snow begins to melt, she begins to stir. This is where the dream turns terrifying. The skies turn an unnatural black, it rains for many days and nights, wetting the dirt. This will make it easier to come out of her grave. The winds whipping about have a magic about them, someone is calling her to task. This time, there is no suffocation, no struggle as she rises.

            Boggvir has made yet another mistake. He has buried Brynhilda in a mass grave. It is centuries old, but filled with the bodies of warriors’ past, all angry at having been wronged by someone in their lives. Her own anger reaches out to them, and they begin to stir as well.

            For a moment, the ground seems to be its own entity, alive with activity from those below. Bodies start to burst forth, fully armed and armored with rusted metals. As the storm rages on, and her army gathers, Brynhilda is aware of a chant beginning. It’s one word; kill. There’s nothing melodic about it, but as it reaches a crescendo, she feels her anger and pain well within her, until all she can do is let out a fierce scream. The others scream with her.

            The rain stops as suddenly as it began, the clouds part, and the sun begins to shine. She looks at herself and the army behind her. Despite the rotted flesh falling from bleached bones, the maggots and beetles crawling about the walking corpses, she recognizes these people. Two of them step up, and place their hands on her shoulders. Her parents. She turns to the army behind her. Her ancestors, enraged on her behalf walk with her.

            She awakens with a gasp. Half expecting to be covered in mud, she thrashes about and whimpers in terror. “Hush little one.” Someone says above her. She panics, begins to scramble to get up. “No, no, please, you’re weak and you’ll hurt yourself!” The voice says. She doesn’t listen. It’s hard to get up, there’s something binding her torso, it’s clunky and throws her balance off. She manages to stand for a few seconds, before falling back on her ass. She cries out in pain, but shuffles away from the person until her back hits a wall.

            The woman just sits there, looking at her slightly amused. “Are you done child?” She asks. “Who are you?” Brynhilda demands. “I am Dagmar, wife of Eysteinn, the man you owe your life to.” Brynhilda looks about the small hut. There’s nothing remarkable about it. A bed is shoved into the corner, there are various jars on a shelf. It’s a normal looking hut. “I,” She starts, eyes swinging back to Dagmar. “Thank you,” she means it, dying in the dirt had seemed her only option last she remembered.  

            “Don’t thank me, thank that fool husband of mine. He’s the one the insisted we keep you alive through the winter.” Dagmar motions for her to get back. “Now I owe him an apology. And you owe us food.”

“I have no food, or money.” Brynhilda explains. “You can work, can’t you?” Dagmar says. “You’re still healing but you’re well enough to scrabble about my home like a crab. Come here girl and let me change your bandages.” Brynhilda does as she’s ordered. Dagmar begins unwrapping the binds, as soon as all is settled, taking out the sticks layered in between wrappings carefully. “Someone did a number on you girlie.”

“Yes,” Brynhilda admits. “Spent the whole winter sick and healing. Fever nearly killed you.” Brynhilda remains silent. “You look foreign too. What were you, a slave?”

“I was never a slave,” Brynhilda snaps. “Nothing wrong with being a slave.” Dagmar mutters. “You’d do well to remember that. One must do what one must to survive.” Brynhilda turns to look at the old woman. “Turn back around.” Dagmar orders. “And stay still. Your back still has a long way to go, we had to cut some of the flesh off when it got infected. Your bones healed proper though. My husband saw to that.” There’s pride in Dagmar’s voice as she talks about Eysteinn. “Said the gods were intervening personally with you. I wanted to throw you out into the snow. Eating all our food stores like that. Then you didn’t have the decency to keep them down.” She gives a hmph.

            Brynhilda wants to snap at the woman, but reigns her temper in. These people helped her, however reluctant they were to do it. “The gods intervening with mortals, have you ever heard of such a thing? They only intervene with King Ragnar. They say he and his family are descended from Odin. Even his wife is descended from the famed Sigurd the Dragon Slayer and Brynhilda the Shieldmaiden.”

“I know.” Brynhilda says. “My father told me the stories.” Dagmar finishes unwrapping Brynhilda and lays the bandages to the side to be burned. She dips a rag into a bowl of warm water and begin to wash Brynhilda’s skin. “And you, are you descended from the gods?” She eventually asks. Brynhilda remains silent. Dagmar doesn’t seem to mind, she continues to talk. “Even if you aren’t, my Eysteinn is convinced you’re being watched over by them. He says Odin himself has his eye on you. You seem to be blessed.”

            At this, Brynhilda scoffs. “Blessed? I am cursed. My entire family was murdered, my king has betrayed me, now I have to listen to some old woman prattle on about how she wanted to leave me to nature.” Dagmar chuckles. “Then Odin is truly testing you.”

“How, by taking everything I ever loved, leaving me alone in the world? Leaving me with nothing?” Brynhilda can’t fathom why she’s even talking to the old woman. Maybe it’s the stress, maybe the fever has touched her brain. Whatever the case, she feels like oversharing. “Odin will reward you in the end.” Dagmar assured her. Brynhilda gives a derisive snort.

            When Dagmar is finished washing Brynhilda’s back, she walks over to the shelf with the jars  and pulls one down. Walking it back over to Brynhilda, the girl gets a whiff of the contents. There’s no mistaking it, it’s a healing paste. Brynhilda grunts in pain as Dagmar smooths the paste along her back. Halfway through, the door to the cabin opens. Brynhilda cranes her neck to see an older man walk in. He’s carrying rabbits around his midsection. “You’re up!” He says jovially. “Dear wife, it’s the first day of spring, and it looks like our guest has pulled through.”

            “Yes, I am sorry for doubting you husband.” She growls. Eysteinn laughs. Bending over to kiss his wife, Brynhilda watches as the old woman smiles and blushes. She’s envious of the love between them. She can only hope to have a love like that in her life one day.

            “So, young one, my wife doesn’t think you’re watched over by Odin. I think otherwise. Will you settle the debate for us? Are you Brynhilda? The one who was Blood Eagled by Boggvir?” There was no sense in lying to them. Before she answers she looked for possible weapons in their home. They were old, but she knew better than to underestimate the elderly. There was a reason they reached old age. The couple might not take kindly to the Shieldmaiden of Boggvir in their home. “I am,” She says. Eysteinn’s eyes glitter with excitement. “That’s two point for me wife.” Dagmar snorts. “Who’s keeping score?” She wipes the last bit of paste stuck to her fingers onto a rag.

            “Odin has saved you then? For great purpose, I imagine.” Eysteinn sounds thrilled with the idea. “I like to think so.” Brynhilda admits. There’s no other way to account for her good luck so far. Dagmar begins wrapping a new set of bandages around Brynhilda’s middle. “Odin only interferes in the lives of those he considers worthy. You must be a tremendous person of importance.” Eysteinn continues. Brynhilda purses her lips. “They say Boggvir rewarded you well for your services to him.”

“He betrayed me!” Brynhilda snarled. “I made that man king and he tried to sacrifice me on the word of his whore! Why would Odin want such a sacrifice? He knows I will enter Valhalla when I am good and ready.”

            Eysteinn is smiling at her, mirth evident in his eye. “You are angry, that will serve you well in the times to come.”

“What do you know about the times to come?” Brynhilda snaps. “My husband dreams,” Dagmar said. She’s done with everything now, and moves to sit on the other side of the fire. She brings out a knife to begin gutting the rabbits Eysteinn brought home. “He sees things, senses things.”

“Plus, the ravens ever present outside our home gives it away.” He says. “Are you descended from the gods?”

“My father says we’re descended from the god Freyr and his wife.” Brynhilda says. Dagmar laughs outright at this. Brynhilda’s face gets hot with her laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one.” The old woman teases. “Descended from Freyr and his wife, I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I didn’t say it was true,” Brynhilda defends quietly. “I said that’s what my father told me.” She brings her knees to her chest, and looks longingly into the fire. Dagmar and Eysteinn sense the conversation is over for now. “Rest, young Brynhilda,” Dagmar says. “Tomorrow, you begin to work for your keep.”


	4. Kattegat

            Spring time is a time for healing and learning. All those pesky little domestic tasks Brynhilda never had time for was what she learned now. At first, she thought she was going to go mad sewing holes in clothes and digging in the dirt for roots. Dagmar put an end to that very quickly.

            One day, as Brynhilda was complaining about the uselessness of needing to know how to properly darn socks, Dagmar snapped at her. “What are you going to do when you’re out on the road and a hole wears into your sock, hm? Ask some elf to repair it for you?” Brynhilda was ready with a smart retort. “You’re alone now girl,” Dagmar continues. “You need these ‘useless skills’ to survive. You don’t have any more slaves to do it for you.”  After that, Brynhilda never complained about her lessons.

            It was the truth, slaves had always been there to do what she couldn’t. She had been too busy trying to be the perfect warrior. For her, survival once meant making it through the battle and the resulting wounds. Now it meant learning to care for herself through the most obvious means. There was more to it all than just shooting an animal and then roasting its meat over a fire.

            Every part of the animal was useful. Skin, bones, entrails, all of it could be used for something else if it wasn’t used for food. The parts you couldn’t eat in one sitting could be preserved for later. It wasn’t just animals either, the whole forest was a virtual cornucopia that could be used. Roots and berries for eating or poisoning, mushrooms and barks for healing. Every night she went over the lessons in her head to commit them to memory.

            What Dagmar couldn’t teach, Eysteinn could. He taught her to make simple weapons, ones that didn’t need a forge. Knives, spears, bows and arrows. When she was well enough, he taught her how to use these weapons. He taught her how to fish and grow her own food, how to make a type of bread that was dense in nutrients but awful in taste, how to dry meats. He even taught her how to brew small batches of ale.

            At night, they taught her about magic. It was the practical kind. Spells to ensure a good harvest or to heal setting bones. Runes to carve into a weapon to make sure the aim was true. Amulets for protection against draugr and trolls. When she asked about magic that could harm people, Dagmar had slapped her, hard. “We never talk of that dark arts.” She hissed. “Once you do one dark spell, you’re cursed for eternity. I won’t allow that to happen to you.” Brynhilda never brought it up again.

            Spring was coming quickly to a close now. Dagmar was outside, foraging for roots while Eysteinn and Brynhilda worked on carving. “You’ll be heading out soon.” He says. Brynhilda doesn’t answer for a long while. She had gotten comfortable with the old couple. She wanted to stay with them for the rest of their lives. “I will,” She said. He nods. “I have presents for you.” Brynhilda puts her carving down, watching as he gets up.

            “Dagmar and I had children,” He explains. “once upon a time, before they were all killed.” He toddles over to the makeshift cot they made her. Moving the furs, he lifted a secret door. He jerked his head for her to come and see. She did as he asked, kneeling next to the hole in the hut. “This belonged to my daughter once,” He said, reaching to pull out the first item. Brynhilda stops him before he is able. “I can’t take these things.” She says, shocked they were even considering it. “Did you not hear me; our children are dead.”

“But they’re yours, they belong with you.”

“And my wife and I are giving them to you. It’s wrong to simply let these things simply rot. They were made for warriors, to be used in battle. We want you to have them.”

“Are you sure Dagmar wants me to have her children’s things?” Brynhilda asks, letting go of the old man’s arm. He laughs. “She’s the one who suggested it!” He pulls out a sword first. “This was my eldest daughter’s sword.” He explains, unsheathing it. All down the blade were runes. Ones of protection, strength, and victory. “She never even got to use it.” He hands her the sword. Next, he pulls out a shield. A great bear is painted on it. “This shield belonged to my eldest son, he was a berserker.” Eysteinn smiles fondly. “He had untold amounts of strength, just as you do.” He hands it to Brynhilda as well. “This,” He says, pulling out a wolf pelt. “Was for my youngest, she was a úlfheðnar. She had it blessed by a Seer.” She takes it as well.

            “Eysteinn, are you completely sure?” Brynhilda asks again. “I am,” He says, smiling to her. He shuts the hatch and gets back up, his bones creaking. “My children would hate to have their effects just lie around. They would want their things to be used. These items will serve you well, they will protect you.”

            He settles back in his spot. Brynhilda takes her time inspecting the items. There are beautifully made. “They look brand-new.” She says. “how long ago were your children killed?”

“Oh, two years ago.” He tells her. “Who killed them?” Brynhilda sets the items aside with care. “A witch,” he says. “Ingrid was her name.” Brynhilda stiffens. “Ingrid Arnesdottir?” She growls. “Blond hair, green eyes, a tattoo of ravens on her back?” Eysteinn looks at her thoughtfully. “She comes from the north?” Brynhilda continues. “And has a staff made of wood and inlaid with gold?”

            Eysteinn is quiet for a long time, so long in fact, Dagmar walks back into the little hut. She notices the tense atmosphere and has sense enough to keep quiet. “I have often dreamed of that woman’s head being placed on a platter for me to spit at.” Eysteinn admitted. “Killed all three of my children just for a damned prophecy. It seems you were brought to my doorstep for a reason young one,” Brynhilda nods. “Fate has a funny way of working out.” She tells him.

            “If you are going to kill this woman, you will need more than just a sword and shield.” Eysteinn says. “I’m aware.” Brynhilda growled. Eysteinn looks at his wife, who nods to him. Taking a deep breath and letting out slowly, it seems he comes to yet another decision. “Stay for the summer,” he says. “And then, when it begins to grow cold, you will go to Kattegat.”

“Why Kattegat?” Eysteinn presses his lips together. “Right, you dream of what’s to come.” Brynhilda mutters. “My army lies in Kattegat then?”

“My dear girl,” Dagmar tells her. “So much more than an army awaits you there.”

*

            Aslaug is warm and content when she holds court. Her sons are outside, taking advantage of the last remaining days of warmth to hunt. She sits, dealing with petty squabbles. She’s fair in her judgements, it’s why people keep coming back to her, but it’s clear she wants nothing to do with them.

            When she is in the middle of making a decision about a chicken and an egg, the Seer appears at her side. She looks up at him, slightly terrified. “What is it?” She asks. He turns to her, smiling wide. Aslaug straightens up. “That girl, she’s here.” She whispers, horror filling her. Her sons have long forgotten the Seer’s prophecy, but Aslaug hasn’t. She has been dreaming of the girl for many months now. She was always bathed in blood, yelling at the sky.

“Remember what we talked about Aslaug.” The Seer warns her. Aslaug was to give the girl a place in her home. It made sense. Aslaug could ingratiate herself to the girl, get her protection if need be. She could also keep a close watch on her, have her killed if the need arose.

            “Your highness?” one of the peasants ask. Aslaug comes back to the present. Right, the chicken. “You,” she nods to the man on the right. “You’ll keep the chicken, the other will keep the egg.” They nod and back away. Fair decision, the chicken will lay more eggs eventually. “Is there anything else?” She asks, now annoyed that her comfortable mood had been ruined by the Seer.

            A thing in rags steps in front of her. Covered in dirt and smelling awful, it pulls back it’s hood. “Gods,” Aslaug whispers. It’s her. Dreams don’t do the child justice.

            She is many shades darker than anyone Aslaug as ever seen. Her hair, filled with twigs and leaves, is black and very curly. Her eyes are an incredible green color. Despite the dirt on her face it’s clear she’s a great beauty, with a strong jaw and rounded cheeks. Give that child one more winter and she’ll be a full-blown woman. “Your highness.” The girl bows, looking rather unsure of herself. “I am in need of work.” She states simply.

            Aslaug is aware of the look the Seer is giving her. “What is your name girl?” she asks. “Brynhilda,”

“Why have you come here?” The Seer makes a noise in the back of his throat, but Aslaug didn’t want a stranger in her home, cooking her food and serving family. “To seek work.” She says simply. “What work could I possibly give you?”

“Any kind your highness. I am good at many things.” Aslaug sits, pretending to debate the answer in order to see what the girl would do. Her face remains impassive, even her eyes were unreadable. “Many of my slaves are weak,” Aslaug says. “They can’t even carry buckets of water for baths.”

“I am stronger than I appear my lady.” Brynhilda states. Her tone is placating. Aslaug nods, seemingly coming to a decision. It’s ridiculous really, the gods decided everything long ago. “Margrethe will show you were the salve quarters are.” She says. Brynhilda merely nods and follows the blond out of the hall. The Seer opens his mouth to comment, but Aslaug cuts him off, “If you make one more comment about how she’s bound for greatness, I will scream.” The old man merely chuckles and moves away from her.

            Aslaug dismisses everyone else, feeling very disturbed. But it’s done. Brynhilda is in Kattegat and there wasn’t anything she could do stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> úlfheðnar-Akin to a berserker but instead of drawing upon the power of a bear, they warrior draws on the power of a wolf.


	5. End Up Dead

            Brynhilda is amazed how quickly two months can pass. She’s almost certain it’s because she’s kept busy. Fetching water, carrying sacks of grain for meals, and grain to the brewer for ale. Whatever physically demanding task Aslaug could think of, she called for Brynhilda to carry it out. Because of all the demands, she’d so far managed to escape the Ragnarsson’s notice. For that, she thanked Odin. From what the other slaves told her, the first three could be very pleasant to be around if you wanted a nice roll in the hay. But it was the youngest, Ivar, that proved the most difficult to work with.

            Ivar was a cripple who had been smothered his entire existence by his mother. He was in an awkward stage of life where he tried to prove himself capable despite being crippled, but not having the will power to exercise control over his anger. He was a complete terror to nearly everyone but his mother and eldest brother Ubbe. Brynhilda made a mental note long ago to stay far, far away from Ivar. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to be alone with him.

            Getting to know the slaves she shared quarters with was the hardest thing she had to do. They were so nice to her, bathing her when her back rendered her useless, rubbing her feet when Aslaug overworked her, telling her funny stories they made up when she was too angry to speak. It was sickening. Deep in her heart, she loved every moment of it.

            She used to have her own set of slaves, four girls that were at her beck and call night and day. She never raised a hand to them, or her voice, but that hadn’t meant she was a good master. It wasn’t just petty tasks and forcing them to care for her. She allowed men under her command to use them as they saw fit. She never cared if they became sick, or injured, she expected unattainable perfection at all times. To soothe the guilt she felt over those transgressions, she made a vow to Odin that she’d do right by her slaves if she ever found them again.

            She also resolved to take care of the other slaves she served with as much as she could. Which was how she found herself carrying a jug of ale to the feast hall. Apparently, because the cold was setting in, Ivar was being more of a pain than usual. The slaves were terrified of him, so they solicited Brynhilda’s help. After all, she was brave, wasn’t she? The scar on her back proved it.

            Despite her new vow to protect the other slaves, when they crowded around her, asking her to serve the Ragnarssons that night, she was hard pressed not to roll her eyes. As she carried the jug of ale she had to remind herself that the slaves dealt with a different kind of pain than she did. She could take a hit from a fist, they could not.  

            Before she enters the great hall, she takes in a deep breath to calm herself. Queen Aslaug wouldn’t be there, she had retired to bed early, a migraine overtaking her. There wouldn’t be anyone that could placate Ivar once everyone got drunk.

            Having never served anyone in her entire life, she enters the feast hall, not sure what to do. Luckily, one of the brothers makes sure to put her right to work. One of them raises their cup. He has incredibly blonde, bushy hair with a few braids on the sides. “It’s about time.” He whines. As she walks over, she’s aware all eyes are on her. The other brothers raise their own cups for her to fill. Well, it’s easy enough. “You’re new.” One of them states. He’s the only one with a full beard, and a long braid that reaches to the backs of his shoulders. “I am.” She says quietly. “What’s your name? Where are you from?” He continues.

“I’m Brynhilda, I can’t remember where I’m from.” She figures the less they know about her, the better. She doesn’t like the looks they’re giving her. “Why do you look so different?” One asks. His hair is shorter than the first ones, and shaved at the sides. “Hvitserk!” he gets a hit on the back of the head. Hvitserk grunts with the force. “She does.” He mumbles, going back to his food. “Maybe she’s from Islam.” One says. Brynhilda’s eyes snap to his. He’s Ivar, she’s sure. The cruelty and curiosity in his eyes give him away.  “Are you girl? Are you from Islam?”

“My name is Brynhilda,” she says, trying to keep her voice from sounding too harsh. “And Islam is the religion, not a country.”

“What does a slave know?” he scoffs. “Ivar, play nice.” The same one that slapped Hvitserk warns. “Why, she’s just a slave.” Brynhilda grits her teeth to keep the smart come back quiet. “I could beat her to death and you couldn’t stop me.” The boy says. Brynhilda scoffs, but manages to bite her tongue. The boy wouldn’t even be able to land a hand on her before she had hers around his throat. Ivar’s eyes snap to hers. “What was that?” he growls. “Nothing,” she mutters. “Nothing, what?”

            Brynhilda doesn’t miss the grip he has on his knife. Ivar would surely kill her if she wasn’t on her guard. “Nothing, master.” She puts, bowing a little. “I’m sorry, are you being sarcastic with me?” He turns to get a better looks at her. “Ivar, please, she’s just trying to do her job.”

“Stay out of it Ubbe.” The boy snaps, without turning to him. “You do realize you’re talking to a prince, right?”

“Oh?” Brynhilda says, “You’re so ugly I couldn’t tell if you were even human.” She winces, her and her big mouth. The unnamed boy, the one she can only guess is Sigurd, throws his head back and laughs. “I think I found my new favorite slave!” he says. Ivar growls and throws himself to the ground. Crawling towards her, Brynhilda holds her ground, wondering what he could possibly do to hurt her. She knew better than to underestimate him, despite being a cripple.

            He looks up at her, “You’d better learn some respect, slave.” He growls. “Or I will make life very hard for you.” Brynhilda raises and eyebrow, looking down at him. “I doubt it.” She challenges him. “There’s nothing you can do to me that I haven’t already lived through.” Ivar’s lips curl into a vicious smile. Saying nothing, he merely slithers around her and into the darkness.

            The rest of dinner is uneventful. The remaining brothers try their best to flirt with her, but she doesn’t take the bait. Soon enough, they’re too drunk to notice her anyway. They turn to laughing at each other and talking of great hunts. Brynhilda can’t help the smile that overcomes her face. It’s an intimate scene she’s well acquainted with. Many nights had been spent around a feast table like this, laughing with her friends, boasting about kills. Her smile quickly falls when she realizes that those friends are out there, laughing and boasting without her. Gritting her teeth, she stiffens her face to stone once again. She needs to find a way to stop thinking about such things. The past won’t help her here.

*

            Another pebble is flung into her side as she raises the water buckets over her head. Ivar, son of Ragnar, does not make idle threats. So far he hadn’t really made life more difficult, just more annoying. He’d woken at dawn with the rest of the slaves, just to torment her. He hadn’t outright ordered her to do anything, he was just there, prodding at her, wondering how far he could push her until she snapped. In all honesty, she wanted to strangle the little shit.

            He followed her as she brought the buckets back to the feast hall. They were to be warmed for Queen Aslaug’s afternoon bath. Brynhilda knows better than to put the water buckets on the ground, Ivar would surely come up and dump them over, smiling like a child who’d gotten away with being naughty. Just as she was reaching for the door, it opens. She looks up and sees Ubbe. “Master,” She says, grunting as another pebble connects with her back. She saw some very suspect looking mushrooms in the forest once, she could slip those into his food if she ever served them again.

            Ubbe looks behind her. “Ivar! Stop torturing the slave.” Brynhilda grits her teeth. I have a name you ass, she thinks. “Excuse me, master.” She says. He steps out of the way and watches as she carries the buckets inside to be warmed. “Ivar, enough!” Ubbe hisses as another pebble lands beside her feet. She leaves them to argue.

            Setting the buckets down near the water, she sees that they will be her last two buckets. Thank the gods. The other slaves are tending to the heating of the water. “Brynhilda,” One whispers. “Come sit down.” As she has no other chores lines up for her so far, Brynhilda sits. If she remembers right, the girls name is Sigrid. “I don’t envy you,” She leans in and whispers. “You should’ve known better than to anger Master Ivar like that.” Brynhilda merely grunts.

            The girls around her talk pleasantly. Most of the topics are foreign to her. Dreams of marriage and children, cute boys they’d like to snuggle with by the fire. Mostly Brynhilda kept quiet, enjoying the company even if she didn’t participate. “What about you Brynhilda?” Sigrid whispers. The girls all look at her excited. She stares back at them, not sure what they’re expecting. “Don’t you want to get married?” One of the slaves asked. She’s the youngest of them all, no more than eight or nine.

            “Of course she doesn’t Rhona,” the other one snaps. “She’s out for revenge.”

“Vigdis!” Sigrid hisses. The girl pales and sends a terrified look to Brynhilda. Vigdis is also young. In fact, out of the five slaves Aslaug had in her household, only Margrethe and Brynhilda were considered proper women. “And how would you know if I’m out for revenge?”

“We don’t,” Sigrid says quickly. “We were just talking earlier. We, um,” She blushes hard. Brynhilda raises an eyebrow. “Did you make up stories about me?” She asks, not trying to hide her smile. The girls look relieved that she isn’t mad at them. “So long as I’m the hero, I don’t care what you come up with.” Brynhilda says. The girls giggle.

            When the water is heated through, Brynhilda pours it into the bath. Bidding the other girls farewell, she takes the buckets and returns to the feast hall. She thinks that maybe Ubbe has taken Ivar far away from the hall, but no such lug. “Slave!” Ivar barks. Brynhilda stops in her tracks and turns to look at him. “Come here.” Brynhilda stays where she is. “Are you hard of hearing?” He snaps. “Come here.” She still stays frozen in her spot.

            Her logic is this: if he’s going to try and make her life more miserable than it already is, then she’d make him work for it. “Woman!” He yells. “My name,” She says. “Is Brynhilda.” She turns and walks out of the hall. She’s playing with fire and she knows it, but she can’t let that pompous shit brained man-child get the best of her.

She is Brynhilda! THE Brynhilda, named after the Valkyrie, she struck terror into the hearts of men long before they even saw her. How many battles had she won by the sound of her name alone? How many times had men and women reported to be the fiercest in all the land bowed to her? How many aspiring farmers had come to ask her for training? How much of an asshole did she sound?

The longer she spent thinking about what was and what is now, she reaffirmed that yes, Odin meant for this to happen. Foolish hero that she was, at one point she almost felt akin to a god. The arrogance she suffered must have been insufferable.

            She’s putting away the water buckets when Sigrid comes running as fast as her legs can carry her.  “Master Ivar wants to see you.” She huffs, her hands on her knees. Brynhilda rolls her eyes to the sky. Her father told her that sometimes, the gods continued to add challenges during adventures to teach their champions valuable lessons. What lesson she was supposed to learn from serving Ivar, she had no clue, but hoped it was damn worth it. She just suffered an earth shaking epiphany.

            Entering the feast hall, she sees Ivar is still where she left him, at the table. She stands in the doorway, looking at him levelly. “Come here.” He growls. She doesn’t move. The boy places a hand on his axe. She readies herself. She’s far enough away that she believes she can dodge his attack with little trouble. “Brynhilda,” He says, “come here.”

            With that, she moves towards him. He seems pleased that she’s finally listening to him. “Yes?” she asks. “Yes, master.” He corrects her. She says nothing. If he’s irritated by it, he doesn’t show it. He’s too busy reveling in the small victory she allowed him. “My brothers have gone to the river. I wish to join them.”

            She looks at him, confused. “What’s stopping you?” She asks. He purses his lips together. “I’m crippled.”

“I’m aware.” She crosses her arms. “I am not going to drag myself all the way to the river.”

“Why not? You drag yourself everywhere else.”

“You’re going to carry me to the river, Brynhilda.” He orders, ignoring her comment. “Now?” She asks. “Yes, now.” She shrugs and grabs for him. Fisting his shirt and the crotch of his pants, she throws him across her shoulders and heads for the door. “PUT ME DOWN!” He bellows. Again, she does as he asks, throwing him over her head onto the ground. He lands with a painful sounding thump. When he gathers enough of his wits about him, he rolls over and punches her leg. There isn’t much force behind it, which is surprising, considering how he gets around. She looks at him smirking. “What’s that matter Master?” She says sweetly. “I thought you wanted me to carry you to the river.”

“I wanted you to carry me properly you insane woman!” Another punch to her leg. Still not much force. Either he was holding back or he really didn’t know how to hit anyone. Brynhilda bends down and hooks her arms underneath him, one under his shoulders, the other under his knees. He glares at her. “Put. Me. Down.” He says, voice full of menace. Brynhilda can’t help but smile at him, dropping him to the ground again. He yelps and his head cracks against the floor.

            “I’m going to kill you.” He mutters, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not my fault you aren’t beings specific Master.”

“I am being specific.” He counters. “Carry me, on your back, to the river. And do it properly.”

            Brynhilda turns from him, gets down on one knee and waits. She hears Ivar move into position. He wraps his arms around her shoulders. She grabs them and stands. “This isn’t-” He starts. “Quiet,” She snaps. “I’ll get you situated in a minute.” She leans forward and awkwardly grasps at his pants. Getting a good grip, she takes a hold of the backs of his thighs and he wraps them around her middle. “You’re strong,” he notes. “you’re fat.” She spits back. “It’s muscle.” He defends. She lets out a bark of laughter. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

            She’s near the door when she hears Aslaug call out. “And where do you think you’re going?” Brynhilda turns towards the queen. Ivar mutters a ‘shit’ underneath his breath. “To the river,” He says. “Ivar, you cannot swim.” Aslaug points out. “That doesn’t mean I can’t join my brothers.”

“You aren’t going to the river.” Aslaug says with finality. “Oh, thank Odin!” Brynhilda says, letting go of his legs. Ivar, having learned his lesson from before, tightens his grip on her neck before he’s dropped. It throws her off balance, and she falls with him, letting out a strangled cry.

            They spend a few seconds dazed in the pile they’ve become, Brynhilda on top of him. “you’re on my legs.” He growls shoving at her shoulders. “Well, who’s fault is that?” She snaps, getting up. Her back is screaming in pain, so it takes her a while to get to her feet. “Slave, why are you playing around? Haven’t I given you enough chores to do?”

“My lady,” Brynhilda says, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Master Ivar wanted me to carry him to the river. Seeing as you haven’t given me any tasks for the afternoon, but Master Ivar had-”

“You aren’t Ivar’s slave, you’re mine.”

“Why not mother?” Ivar asks. “I want her to be my slave.”

“Ivar,” His mother warns. “She’s strong,” He says, looking up at her. “You saw her carrying me, the others can’t do that. I want her to be my slave and my slave only. I don’t want to share her like we share Margrethe.”

“I did not take her in to be a personal slave.” Aslaug explains. “I took her in to do the labor the others could not.”

“I don’t care.” Ivar states bluntly. Brynhilda is mildly surprised. If Ivar were her son, she would’ve slapped him for such behavior. “She’s strong and she can take me anywhere I want to go. I won’t have to wait for anyone else to take me anywhere.”

            Brynhilda looks at the ceiling, praying to Odin for mercy. She doesn’t want to be Ivar’s personal slave. She’d kill him. Let Aslaug  be strong just this once. She prays. It’s ignored. “Fine, Ivar.” Aslaug gives in. “She’s your slave.”

            She’s careful to keep her groan from escaping. Wonderful, from slave to pack mule. Brynhilda is now assured of one thing, one of them is going to end up dead.


	6. Tension

            Brynhilda is convinced Odin put the Ragnarsson’s on Midgard to torture her. At the very least annoy her for the rest of her days. They refuse to leave her alone for too long. Ubbe was interested in her because she was the only woman in all of Kattegat that continually refused to bed him, Hvitserk was only interested because Ubbe was interested. And Sigurd liked her because she gave an uncommon amount of lip to Ivar and got away with. Ivar just liked having a slave around.

            Ivar rarely used her during the day though, preferring to make her nights a living hell, so Aslaug still used her to do labor intensive tasks around the home. Gathering buckets of water, butchering the meat, she even had to catch and kill all the mice in the home, every last imaginary one. Today, Aslaug had her help an older woman bring bags of grain to the docks so she can ship them out to gods knew where.

            She threw the last bag on the pile, groaning with relief. Before she could turn to the old woman and ask her if anything else needed to be done, Aslaug came up the beach, barking for her. “Brynhilda! Come!” Brynhilda nodded to the woman, who thanked her, and ran off. “You are to take Ivar to Floki’s.” She commanded. “And be gentle with him, I know how much you like to play rough.”

“Yes, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters, scurrying off to get Ivar.

            When she finds him, he is bent over, tying his braces up, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His face is haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. “Where have you been?” He snapped, “I’ve been calling for you for ages.”

“I do have other duties to attend to outside of the house.” She informs him. “None of you lip today, I’m in no mood for it.” She scoffs but remains quiet. Watching as he finishes with his braces, she says, “How am I supposed to carry you if you don’t wrap your legs around me.”

“You won’t be carrying me you idiot!” He throws a bag to her, one she catches with ease. Crawling off his furs he heads for the door. Aslaug is watching her carefully. “I thought I told you to carry my so-” She begins, but Ivar cuts her off. “I’m not an invalid mother,” He snaps. “I don’t need some slave carrying me around like a child.”

“Are you sure, every other day you’d love to have me carry you.” Brynhilda says. He gives her a withering look. “I swear slave, today I _will_ cut your tongue from you head.”

“My name,” She says, making sure to step on his hand as she steps over him. He snarls and swats at her. “Is Brynhilda.” She throws open the door and waits for him to crawl out.

            By the time they get halfway to Floki’s hut, Brynhilda is sweating and struggling as much as Ivar is. “Maybe we should take a break.” She suggests, trying not to pant with the effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other. Ivar glares at her, “I don’t need a break.”

“Sure,” She says. “Neither do I. I’m good. I could go on for days.” They continue until they both come to a stop, pain becoming too great. Ivar presses his head into his forearm while Brynhilda drops to her knees. Both begin to gasp for air, trying their best to ride out their pain without the other taking too much notice. When they’re finished, Ivar peeks at her. “Can go on for days huh?” Brynhilda growls. “Don’t need anyone to carry you huh?” They stay like that, looking at each other for a long while. It isn’t a glare, it’s more of a curious stare, they want to know the extent of each other’s pain, they want to bond over it. Brynhilda gets back up, shouldering the bag and nods. “Lead the way oh mighty prince.” She says. Ivar begins once again to crawl.

            By the time they reach Floki’s hut, Ivar pounding on the door calling for the man, both are drenched in sweat and nauseas with the effort of it all. The door is thrown open to reveal a mostly bald man, shirtless and looking very alarmed. He takes one look at Ivar and opens the door wider. Ivar enters the hut, Brynhilda merely hands Flokie the bag, figuring Ivar had her bring it for a reason. Floki takes it wordlessly. He gives her a long look, expecting her to follow Ivar. She doesn’t move from her spot. Not one to invite strangers in his home, he shuts the door in Brynhilda’s face.

            She’s in the middle of getting off the grumpy old man’s front step when the door opens again. She looks to see Ivar’s disapproving face. “Well?” He says. “Get in here.” She does as she’s told, but does it slowly. As she passes him, she hears Ivar mutter ‘moron’. “And who’s this?” Floki asks, looking over her critically. “Her name is Brynhilda.” Ivar explains, pulling himself onto the bed.  

            “Undo my braces.” Ivar looks at Brynhilda expectantly. She stands there, glaring. “Well slave?”

“Give me a moment.” She snaps, seized with pain. His brows knit together as he looks at her, but he says nothing. For a few tense moments, she stands there, willing her legs to work. “The last time I check-” Ivar begins. “You keep your mouth shut.” Brynhilda snarls. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m the crippled one,” He snaps back. “Yes, but the entire world doesn’t revolve around you.” Ivar throws something at her, it bounces off her stomach. “You’re my slave, you should be taking care of me when I’m in pain.”

            This spurs Brynhilda to his side. He’s smiling, thinking he’s triumphant, and in a way he is. Brynhilda can’t bring herself to hit him. Any other man, any other point in time and she would have gutted him like cow he is. Instead, she rips at his ties. He hisses in pain with the jerking of his legs, but doesn’t stop her. It’s like prey that’s smelled a predator but doesn’t know where it is, something instinctive inside tells him not to push too hard or he may not live to regret it.

            When she’s done untying his braces she walks into a corner of the hut and slips to the ground, exhausted. As Floki and his, presumably wife, work on Ivar, Brynhilda grinds her teeth together. Breathing deep and letting it out slowly, she focuses on one of the lessons Eysteinn taught her. How to properly strong a bow. It isn’t complicated, but she drags out all the little details in her head for distraction.

            When the pain abates, she uncurls herself. It worried her that she had seized up at all. If she was going to wage war on her enemies, she couldn’t let that stop her. There would be long, hard days of marching, hours of fighting, she’d need to be able to lift her shield and her sword, or else she’d fall. Weakness was not an option.

            She chewed her lip as she thought of the actions she could take. She went through every idea she could, resting wasn’t an option, going to the Queen and telling her what Brynhilda was trying to do definitely wasn’t an option, getting one of the Ragnarssons to help her was unthinkable. She could train at night, when no one would bother her. No one traveled in the forest at night, they wouldn’t be able to figure her out. As much as she hated the thought, it was her only option.

            She was pulled from her internal planning by Ivar throwing his bag at her. “Let’s go, slave,” He sneers. “My name,” she says, getting up and shouldering the bag, “Is Brynhilda.”

*

            When Eysteinn had trained her during the summer, she hadn’t been in top form. He went easy on her as a result. She hadn’t complained then, wanting to soak up the technical aspect of training more than anything. Now, she planned on putting that training to good use. Ivar had gone to bed early, leaving her with an evening alone. It was the perfect time to start.

            She didn’t dare dig up her sword and shield. They were far too precious, she couldn’t afford someone figuring out her little treasure chest. So, she took up a stick she found and began to go through the motions. Her back still ached, but she took it slow. The goal was to work on endurance, not kill herself.

            She was just beginning to work up a sweat when she heard her name being called. She had chosen the spot where all the slaves went to relax when they had the rare day off, the only one she told was Sigrid. Expectedly, that was who burst from the tree line, looking panicked. “What’s wrong?” Brynhilda asked, trying to stay calm for the girl. “It’s Ivar,” Sigrid pants. “He’s looking for you.” Brynhilda rolls her eyes. Of course he is.

            She walks up the bank to Sigrid, throwing the stick somewhere in the brush. “You’d better hurry,” Sigrid warns, grabbing Brynhilda’s hand. “He’s angry that you’ve disappeared.” Brynhilda grunted, not moving any faster as Sigrid tugged her along. “Let the little shit suffer.” She says. Sigrid says nothing.

            They walk for some time, Sigrid keeping a tight hold on Brynhilda’s hand. Normally, Brynhilda would’ve brushed her off. She hated being touched, but it seemed she didn’t mind Sigrid. “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to kill you?” Sigrid finally asks. “No,” Brynhilda answers honestly. “Really?” Brynhilda completely misses the girl’s tone of awe. “Really. I’ve faced entire armies on my own before, Ivar doesn’t scare me at all.”

“You have not!” Sigrid says. Brynhilda grunts. “Alright, maybe a small warband, but the point was, there was one of me and a large number of them.”

“What did you do?” Sigrid asked. “I killed them.”

“I know that,” Sigrid says, giggling. “How did you kill them?”

“One by one,” Brynhilda tells her honestly. “It took me about a week.”

“Really, an entire week? You didn’t just fight them all?”

            Brynhilda stops and looks at Sigird, trying to figure out if the girl is serious. “I’m not a god Sigrid, I can only do so much.”

“But it took you a week?”

“I had to remain hidden, I would’ve died otherwise.” Brynhilda says a little exasperated. Sigrid’s brows are furrowed, she’s trying to figure out how Brynhilda went about killing a bunch of men over the course of a week. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day, right now, let’s go and see what fresh torture Ivar has prepared for me.”

            As they approach Kattegat, Sigrid continues asking her questions. “Are you a shieldmaiden?”

“I was,”

“What happened?”

“I was betrayed.”

“Who betrayed you?”

“People I thought my family.”

“Why did they betray you?”

“I was a pawn in a game I hadn’t realized was being played.” Sigrid was quiet for so long after that, they reached the Slave House before she spoke again. “Are you going to get revenge?” She whispered. Brynhilda lets go of Sigrid’s hand and bends to look her in the eye. Sigrid’s blue eyes are wide as her mouth as Brynhilda says, “Not even Odin can stop me from reaping my revenge on those that tried to bury me.” Sigrid takes a step back from the older woman, feeling chills run through her. Bryhilda straightens and turns towards the feast hall. As the girl steps into the slave house, Sigrid makes a promise not to get on Brynhilda’s bad side.

            The moment Brynhilda opens the door, Aslaug is on her. “Where have you been?” She snaps. “Ivar has been calling for you,”

“I’m aware.” She brushes past the queen. “He is in a great deal of pain,” Aslaug says, running after her. “You will soothe it by any means necessary or-”

            Brynhilda turns to the queen. “Or what?” She sneers. Aslaug backs up from her, clearly afraid. Brynhilda’s eyes are afire tonight, Aslaug knows better than to frustrate the girl, the Seer has told her as much. Pressing her lips together, she lifts her chin and looks down at her. “Just soothe my son’s pain.” She orders. “I will try my best, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters.

            She leaves Aslaug in the feast hall and opens the door, only to be assaulted with a drinking horn. “Where have you been?” Ivar yells at her. “As far away from you as possible.” She mutters. Ivar ignores her smart answer and begins his tirade. “You are MY slave! You are to be where I can find you at all times!” Brynhilda drowns him out early on, trying to concentrate more on not strangling him. When there’s no sign of an end to his angry speech, she cuts him off, “Are you going to sit there and bitch all night, or are you going to tell me what to do?” Ivar seethes for a few moments. “Go fetch the healer. She’s an old woman that lives on the outskirts of Kattegat.”

“For the love of Odin!” Brynhilda throws her hands to the sky. “Any slave here could’ve done that, one of your brothers could’ve done that.”

“I want you to do it.” Ivar says, smirking. Brynhilda can’t believe it. This asshole really had her tracked down for a task anyone could’ve done. “Of all the idiotic-” She starts, turning from him and walking out of the room. Ivar only catches the end of her complaining, something about a ‘complete moron’. She ignores the cup that sails by her head.


	7. Breaking Point

            Brynhilda bangs on the door of the healer’s house. It’s taken her nearly an hour to get there, she had gotten lost. She had to ask Sigrid where this mysterious healer lived. An old woman opened the door, glaring at Brynhilda for disturbing her sleep. “What do you want?” She snaps. “Prince Ivar requests you come and tend to him.” Brynhilda explains. The healer harrumphs. “Tell him I’m sleeping.”

“No, you will come.”

“Oh? And what’s a slave going to do about it?” Brynhilda lets out a growl. She was halfway ready to throw the old woman over her shoulder when Sigrid spoke up, sensing Brynhilda’s ire. “If you won’t come, then at least show us how to do it.” The old woman looks at the child, grunts, and lets the girls in.

            There’s a foul smell coming from the house that Brynhilda recognizes, it reminds her of the battlefield where the slain have yet to be buried. The hag putts around the house, gathering things in her arms. “It’s the pain you have to deal with first.” She tells them. “Then you must relax him.”

“How do I go about doing that?” Brynhilda asks. “You need a gentle, but firm hand. The boy gets knots in those twisted muscles of his. You must rub them away.”

“If I lay hands on that little idiot they’re going around his neck.” Brynhilda mutters, smiling at the thought. The old woman turns to look at Brynhilda quizzically. “You weren’t always a slave, where you?”

“Nope!” Sigrid answers for her. “She was a shield maiden once.”

“Let’s not go spreading that around,” Brynhilda mumbles. Sigrid blushes and looks at the floor. “My apologies.” She mutters. The old woman cackles. “I thought as much,” she says. “I’ve watched you from the shadows, seen you mouth off to the prince. He likes you.”

“That’s a good one.” Brynhilda misses the hag’s irritated gaze, too busy watching Sigrid. The girl is looking around, fascinated by all the herbs. She picks up a mushroom and sniffs it. Brynhilda immediately takes it out of her hands, puts it back, and gives the child a warning look. Sigrid blushes, giving her a sheepish smile. “If Prince Ivar didn’t like you so much, you wouldn’t get away with so much lip, of this, I can assure you.” Brynhilda merely rolls her eyes, but remains quiet.

            Despite her previous warning, Brynhilda has a hard time keeping Sigrid from touching everything. She has to chase after the girl and put things back, sometimes forcefully. The old woman laughs. “Let her explore, you must learn the right mixtures.” Brynhilda glares at the old woman but casts a worried look to Sigrid. She’s smiling wide, excited now that she has permission to look at everything. “Don’t eat anything.” Brynhilda tells her. Sigrid nods and turns to inspect a pile of powders.

            Brynhilda and the old woman take their time, making sure nothing can go wrong. It’s simple enough, three herbs go into a cup of warm ale, another four are mixed in sheep’s oil and rubbed onto his leg. The old woman told her she might want to warm her hands before this, Ivar was known to pitch fits if cold hands touched him. Brynhilda had a hard time not rolling her eyes, he pitched fits at everything, it seemed. The old woman finished her lesson with instructions to fill another horn of warm ale with a powder, so the prince may sleep.

            As Brynhilda was packing the herbs away, repeating the instructions in her head, Sigrid and the old woman talk. It’s in hushed tones, less to keep Brynhilda from overhearing, more because it just seems like a place to be quiet. When Brynhilda stands, she jerks her head to the door. Sigrid jumps up from her seat and scuttles over. They thank that old woman and go back into the night.

            Sigrid ducks to go back into the slave house, but Brynhilda stops her. “Can you help me?” She asks. Sigrid merely pauses, looking at her in disbelief. “I…” Brynhilda starts. She shuffles uncomfortably on her feet. “I don’t have gentle hands,” she explains. “I am no healer; will you rub Ivar’s legs for me?” In the dim glow of the moon she can see panic in Sigrid eyes. “I won’t let him hurt you,” Brynhilda says, putting her hands on the small girl’s shoulders. “If I can help it. He might get a hit in, depending on his mood, but I won’t let him kill you.” Sigrid takes a deep breath, collects her courage, and walks with Brynhilda into the longhouse.

            When they open Ivar’s door, they’re immediately assaulted with a cup. Sigrid, used to Ivar’s more violent outbursts, is quicker to react and manages to catch it. “Where the hell have you been?” Ivar snarls, “And where is the old hag?”

“She didn’t want to deal with your shit today,” Brynhilda explains, making sure to stand in front of Sigrid. The walk to his little table, and Brynhilda begins to set everything out. “So, she told me what to do.”

“Go back and get her.”

“No,”

“Yes.”

“I am your master!”

“You’re an irritating child.” Ivar snarls at this but doesn’t deny it, instead, he keeps whining. “You’ll break my legs, you’re nothing more than a clumsy ox.”

“Sigrid will rub your legs.” If Ivar registers Brynhilda’s comment, he doesn’t show it. “You’ll poison me,” he continues. “I know you want me dead. I see the way you glare at me when I give you an order. It’s not my fault you’re a slave.”

            Brynhilda is busy running the ale filled over the fire of a brazier. She passes it over slowly, then allows a few moments out of the flame so the cup doesn’t burn, while she does this, she looks at Ivar, giving him her best menacing smile. “If I wanted you dead,” She told him. “You’d be dead, and it would be by poison.” This seems to shut him up for a while. “How would you kill me?” He asks. Brynhilda is struck by the oddity of the question. He know doubt wants to know out of a combination of morbid curiosity and the desire to see it coming so he could defend himself. “Violently,” She says. The ale is warm enough, she thinks, so she goes about putting the herbs in it and letting them steep.

            “More than likely, I’d strangle you, but knowing you, I’d probably have to run you through with a sword, or bury an axe in your head.”

            “What do you mean ‘knowing me?’ you don’t know me at all.”

“I know enough to realize that you aren’t going down without a fight.” She hands him the cup, she doesn’t think they let them sit long enough, but she wants to get this done and over with. He downs it in a few gulps. “It wouldn’t be much of a fight,” Ivar mutters, avoiding her gaze. “How would you know? I know how to throw a punch.”

“My brothers do not take the time to train me as a warrior.” Ivar scoffs. “Despite being a Prince, you and I would be equals if it came to a fight to the death.” Brynhilda has to wonder how much that hurt him to admit, instead, she settles for a small truth of her own. “Any other day, I’d disagree, but I’m not exactly in top form.” She hands the bowl of oil and herbs to Sigrid, who takes them hesitantly.

            Wide eyed with fear, she kneels in front of Ivar, who’s glaring at her for all he’s worth. Brynhilda takes his cup and watches closely, ready to strike at any moment. For a while, it appears all the fight has gone out of Ivar, too much in pain, and too upset with his lack of battlefield prowess compared to a slave to really pay attention, but when Sigrid hits a particularly hard knot in his calf, he snarls and back hands her so hard she goes flying. Before he can start his tirade of how stupid the little girl is, Brynhilda steps in front of Sigrid, delivering a back hand of her own. Ivar’s head snaps to the side and stays there for a few moments, stunned.

            Brynhilda turns to Sigrid, inspecting the girl’s cheek. It’s red, most likely it will bruise, but the skin hasn’t split from his brace, so that’s a good sign. “Go,” Brynhilda whispers, “I’ll finish here.” Sigrid doesn’t need to be told twice. She runs for the door as fast as she can, and disappears into the dark.

            Brynhilda turns to Ivar, the corner of his mouth is bloody. “You’ll pay for that,” He threatens. “Shut up,” she snaps. “You deserved it you little shit.”

“I am your prince! I am your master, you will obey me, slave!”

“And if I don’t?” Brynhilda can’t help but goad him, she’s hip deep in it now, might as well. Besides, seeing him turn red in anger because of her is incredibly satisfying. “Then I’ll become your worst nightmare.” He smirks, thinking his intimidation will work. Brynhilda leans down, her nose nearly touching his. “I can tell you,” she begins, green eyes boring into blue, “With the utmost certainty, that anything you come up with is mere child’s play compared to what I’ve been through.”

“What hardships does a slave know?”

            Brynhilda’s hand slips around Ivar’s neck, the impulse to choke him strong. She settles for squeezing lightly instead. She tells herself it’s to get her point across, but really, she just likes the feeling of being in power again. “I would like you to remember that I wasn’t always a slave. I had a full life before coming here, a dangerous one. I am capable of much more than you realize.”

            For a moment, the air is charged, with what, neither can decipher. Brynhilda lets go of his neck and stands back. “Take off your pants.” She tells him. He gives her a soft ‘no’. She wants to snap at him, but the pathetic look he gives her stops the words in her throat. Sighing, she sits next to him. “I know about your legs, Ivar,” She tells him, trying not to sound like she’s talking to a stubborn child. It’s hard, his mood swings definitely suggest he’s a spoiled brat. “I know they’re twisted and unpleasant, but rubbing your legs underneath your clothing won’t be very helpful.” He presses his lips together, thinking about it.

            Eventually, he concedes her point and begins to unlace his trousers. As he does so, she walks back to his bed, putting the last set of herbs in his cup along with the ale. This time, she surrounds the cup with coals from the brazier and leaves it while she tends to his legs.

            Ivar has covered himself as much as he can, but his legs hang over the bed frame. She’s careful to school her expression into one of neutrality. Kneeling in front of him, she just begins to work.. His legs don’t feel like she imagined they would. They’re thin, twisted things, but the skin on them is soft. They remind her of bones that were broken, then healed wrong. Whatever benefits he’d receive from the oil are gone, so it’s just her hands.

            She makes sure she’s thorough with Ivar’s’ legs. She doesn’t want to be woken up in the middle of the night again. With every knot hit, he grunts and she braces for a hit. None come. When it’s all over with, she gets up wordlessly, hand him the ale cup, admittedly probably too hot to drink, and leaves.


	8. Snap

Ivar settles in for the night, thoughts filled with Brynhilda. Had she been any other slave, he would’ve tried to sell her by now, at most, kill her. No other slave here would dare treat him the way she did. A dangerous life led indeed. At first, he thought all those hints about being someone of some status was just her lying to make people feel impressed. Now, he truly believed her. It was her eyes.

            Round, doe-like, and green, those eyes of hers were more threatening than her words. Her eyes promised unimaginable tortures. Ivar licked his lips. They also told of unimaginable pain. Earlier in the day, when they both struggled to get to Floki’s for a moment, she had looked at him, had understood the pain, not pitied it. What kind of life had a slave lived that allowed such an uneasy connection?

            He turns over in his furs, frustrated. Who had she been before she came to him? She had to be a great warrior? There was no way someone half his size could perform the feats of strength she did. A momentary flare of jealousy ripples through him. Then he realized, if he asked her, she might train him. If I ordered her, she’d train me too, he thought smugly. Then, no, that wouldn’t work, she doesn’t listen to me now. I have to ask, I will ask. And I’ll be polite about it.

            With a definite plan to enact he falls asleep, smiling. He might get some actual training in, instead of fussing at Ubbe and Hvitserk to help him. Or just sitting there, watching his brother’s motions. She’d train him to be a great warrior, feared even. They could ride into battle together, striking down all their enemies.

            Brynhilda is even there in his dreams. There’s something different about it all. She’s still rubbing is legs, but she’s murmuring to him. “What?” He asks, unable to hear her. She smiled up at him, a gentle one, not the smirk that promises trouble. “I said I love you,” she repeats, placing a soft kiss to a twisted knee cap. He smiles, encasing her face in his hands. He runs the pads of his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks. “I love you too,” He tells her, then pressed his lips to hers. Her uncharacteristic giggle follows him out of the world of dreams, into the world of reality.

*

            Brynhilda is dreaming as well. However instead of love confessions and soft kisses, it the knife in her back, the axe to her ribs. Only this time, it isn’t Boggvir, it’s Sigrid. The young girl is looking grim. “What did you expect?” Sigrid asks, in Boggvir’s voice. “You trust to easily My Little Shield. You make the wrong friends wherever you go.” Brynhilda tries to promise to kill him, but she can’t, the pain is in her heart is too great.

            She awakens with a start, tears falling, covered in a sheen of sweat. “Bad dream?” Brynhilda jumps up, ready to defend herself. A chuckle rings out across the small slave house. She focuses and sees Ubbe staring curiously at her. “Relax,” He says, looking her up and down. Her skin crawls as he does. “Margrethe isn’t here,” She tells him, glaring. “I’m not here for Margrethe,” He says. He steps inside, trying to look innocent. “I want to talk,”

“No,” She snaps, “You want to fuck,” He begins to protest, but stops. “I want to get to know you,” He tries again. She snorts and crosses her arms. Ubbe was almost as irritating as Ivar, almost. He left her alone as long as Margrethe was around to entertain him. But the moment Margrethe was out of his sights, he turned his gaze towards her. “You know enough about me already.” He chuckles at her. “Don’t you want be friends?”

“No, I don’t.” His face turns to shock, no doubt not used to such a blatant rejection. Least of all from a slave. Where all the Ragnarssons such spoiled brats? “Haven’t I been nice to you?” He asks, trying to figure it out. “What’s your point?” He struggles for his words for a moment, before giving a disbelieving laugh. “Well, nice people are usually friends with each other.” Brynhilda rolls her eyes so far back in her head she could see her brain. “I see Ivar isn’t the only idiot Ragnar produced.”

“Now, there really is no reason to be so ornery.” He defends. She growls and steps towards him. “You come into the slave house when I’m alone and asleep, watch me from the doorway, then claim you want to be friends. You don’t want to be friends with me Ubbe, you want to fuck me. I don’t appreciate your deceit.”

“Now Brynhilda,” He says, holding his hands up. She begins to stalk towards him. “I don’t like you Ubbe,” she says, poking him in the chest once she reaches him. He begins to back out, unsure of how to deal with such a situation. “I don’t want to be your friend, I don’t want to fuck you, I don’t even want to look at you.” She backs him all the way out of the house. “Just leave me alone,” With one last vicious snarl, she slams the door in his face, hoping he’d finally get the message.

             It’s a satisfying feeling, being able to take her anger out on someone else other than Ivar. Ubbe hadn’t exactly cowed before her, but he had looked shocked at her outburst. No doubt she’ll have to deal with the consequences later. For now, she puts it out of her mind. She drags the bucket of water she shares with the other slaves and begins to quickly bathe. No doubt Aslaug will have a list of chores as long as the day for her to complete.

            As she’s toweling off, the door bangs open. “Brynhilda!” The familiar voice of Ivar calls her. She groans raising her face to the heaven. She sends a quick prayer to her gods, asking them to be gentle with her today. She wraps a blanket around her and faces him. If he’s seen her naked, he isn’t affected. “What?” She asks, walking towards him. “Come here, I’ve brought you breakfast.” She stops in the middle of the room.

            Ivar finally looks up at her. His face screws up into confusion. “Why are you wrapped in a blanket?”

“I was bathing. Why did you bring me breakfast?” She eyes the platter of meat, cheese, and bread. There are even blueberries tossed in for good measure. “Can’t I do something nice for my slave?”

“You’re Ivar,” she points out. He opens his mouth to argue, but instead, shuts it with a click. He’s got nothing. “I want you to train me.”

“Beg pardon?” She asks, leaning in so she can hear him properly. “I want you to train me.” He repeats, louder this time. “Train you in what? Taking orders?”

“With a sword.”

“Isn’t that Ubbe’s job.”

“He won’t do it, remember? Doesn’t think I need to know it yet.”

“Don’t you have two other brothers?” Ivar presses his lips together. “Please?” He asks. It’s Brynhilda’s turn for complete shock. “I’m sorry? Did the great Ivar the Boneless just say _please_? Did that really come out of your mouth, or am I still dreaming?”

            He throws a berry at her, in a stroke of complete dumb luck, she manages to catch it. “Yes,” He says. “I did say please, and I’m asking you, not ordering you.” She cautiously approaches him, popping the blueberry into her mouth. It’s sweet as she breaks the flesh with her teeth, and she can’t help but savor it. “I’m not in the best of shape,” She tells him. “But you can still teach me how to swing a sword. I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“I don’t want to be useless.” He admits. That’s twice now he’s been completely honest with her. She sighs, then sits next to him. “Fine,” She says. “But after breakfast.” She takes the plate from him and begins to eat. Ivar immediately begins to ask her questions. “Will you show me how to use an axe too? What about a bow? Can you hunt? I want to learn to hunt too.” Brynhilda gives him a sidelong glance. “You’ll have to give me a moment to figure out how to teach you to hunt.” She tells him. “What?”

“You can’t walk,” She says. “You’ll have to hunt differently. I think traps would be your best bet. Or maybe scaffolding in the trees. Do you know anyone who knows how to build scaffolding? Could you even climb scaffolding? Maybe camouflage will work better.”

            Ivar is looking at her, mouth open. “What?” She says, ripping off a hunk of bread with her teeth. “You,” he starts. “You’d actually teach me all that?” It’s a quiet question. “Yeah, see what happens when you’re nice for once?” She needles. Ivar manages a chuckle. She eats in silence now, Ivar turning the thought over in his head. He wanted to get excited, but he decided to wait until they both got out on the training ground. Things could very well go to shit the moment she started teaching.

            Brynhilda knows not to make Ivar wait too long, the boy’s mood swung with the wind. She gets up, then looks at him. He was so lost in thought he doesn’t acknowledge her for a long time. “What?” He asks, frowning. Had he done something? “Get out.” She tells him. “What?”

“I have to get dressed.” She explains, motioning towards the cloth around her. “Right,” He mutters, snaking down to the ground, leaving without a word. She slips into a clean set of clothing and meets him outside. “The training ground should be free,” He says. “We’re not going to the training ground.” She tells him. “Where else would we train?”

“Somewhere quiet, where we won’t be interrupted.” Not to mention I don’t want your mother breathing down my neck. She thinks. That, she keeps to herself. Ivar follows her willingly into the forest. She decides to take him somewhere other than where she usually trains. He might end up there when the others wanted to bathe.

            She eventually finds a clearing with a stump he can sit on. “Here,” She says, patting it with her hand. “I will go get some sticks.”

“What are sticks going to do?” He asks, sounding irritated. “They will serve as swords for now,” she explains. “I’m assuming no one has even taught you the basics.”

“I’ve been watching Ubbe,” He defends. “I’m not totally inept.”

“Ah,” she says, bending down to pick up a rather large branch. She twirls it a few times. “Ubbe may wield a sword well, but he is self-taught.” She bends to snatch another stick in her hands. This one will do. “But he lacks fundamental knowledge. There’s a certain,” she pauses, throwing him a branch. He catches it easily. “Fine tuning, he lacks” She decides lamely. “He leaves himself wide open, attacks without thinking, this is something you won’t do.”

            Teaching is something Brynhilda had always been good at. She had years of experience, teaching Boggvir’s army. Remarkably patient for such a temper ridden woman, Brynhilda teaches Ivar how to hold the stick, how to swing properly and what exercises he could do on his own. “When you’re in battle,” She explains, testing his block. “It’s more about endurance, the warrior that tires out the quickest, dies first. Yes, strength can also be key, but you must outlast an opponent. Like stalking a deer through the woods.”

“I’ll never be able to stalk a deer.” Ivar grunts, almost losing his grip on the branch. “No,” Brynhilda answers honestly, “You won’t, but that doesn’t mean you can’t kill it. You just have to be smarter than the deer, that’s all.”

“Why does that raven follow you?” Ivar asks, completely changing the subject. Brynhilda falters and looks behind her. “I’ve noticed it,” Ivar says huffing. “Whenever we’re outside, it’s the same raven too, the one with a funny wing.” Brynhilda presses her lips together, glaring at it.

            She tried to ignore the raven’s constant stare, it was hard, because she knew it just had to be one of Odin’s, reporting in on her progress. She looks up at the sky. Had she made enough progress? Was he pleased with her? She berates herself, he couldn’t be. “Never mind the raven,” She tells him. “They’re Odin’s birds you know,” Ivar says, getting ready again. “I know what they are, I am a Viking.”

“I thought you came from another country? I’ve looked at the ring on your finger, it has a strange rune on it.”

“Never mind about the ring too.”

“I just want to get to know my slave.”

“It’s not important. None of it is.”

“You didn’t grow up a slave, did you?”

“Ivar,” Brynhilda’s tone is one of warning. “Let it go.” She knows, by the familiar evil smile and roll of his jaw he isn’t going to let it go. He’s going to needle her. “What? Did your parents sell you because they couldn’t afford to keep you anymore?” This is the last straw. Brynhilda’s patience snaps.


	9. Painful

Brynhilda charges Ivar, knocking him off his stump with a solid hit. Ivar can’t even recover before Brynhilda is on top of him, punching him wildly. He puts his arms in front of his face, yelling with the pain. When she stops suddenly, he dares to peek out from behind his arms. She’s grabbed a rock, it’s held high in the air. She’s ready to kill him. “Brynhilda no!” He yells, trying to scrabble away from her. She’s to heavy and he can’t get purchase on the ground. He sees his impending doom as she starts to bring the rock down towards his head.

           Ivar thinks there’s nothing he can do but accept his fate. He’s going to be killed by his slave. The blow never comes. He cracks open an eye to see her looking away from him, towards the forest, the rock still in hand. “Brynhilda?” He asks tentatively. She shushes him, looking critically at the tree line.

Ivar twists himself to try and see what it was Brynhilda was looking at. He turns back to her. “Bryn-” She shushes him harshly again. “Get off me,” He says shoving at her, annoyed. His face and arms hurt, and he had to think of way to get back at her. “Ivar shut up,” she commands, swinging a leg off him. “You’re funny in the head, aren’t you?” He says. “Ivar,” She warns, “Great, I should’ve known you were a defective slave.” When she opens her mouth, a great roar comes from her.

           Before he could comment that he was surprised she could make such a sound, she grunts, her shoulder jerking back. Two arrows whizz right past her. Just as Ivar realizes they’re under attack, Brynhilda is already diving for an arrow. Two men break from the trees and begin to rush Brynhilda.

Ivar begins to crawl away from them as fast as fast as he can, but when Brynhilda doesn’t follow he stops and looks back. “Brynhilda!” He barks, panicked. She doesn’t even twitch. Just stands there, a smile on her face. The men slow to a stop.

           Ivar looks back from her to them. Crawling to her she tugs at her hand. “Stupid, you don’t have a weapon.” She holds up the rock in one and the arrow in the other. “I’ll make do with these,”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Ivar hisses, hitting her leg. She snorts. “The only people dying today are these three men.” Ivar looks back to the men. “Are you blind? There are only two.”

“There are three.” She says with all the confidence in the world. He’s going to insult her again, but another roar rolls over the field they’re in. One of the men seems to be getting rather rowdy. “Thorvald, Erik,” She says, nodding to each one in turn. She knew the men. Ivar gulps, she’s going to have him killed, or ransomed. The traitorous bitch. “Long time no see.” The men nod to her, greeting her in unison. “Brynhilda.” They say. Just as Ivar is about to curse at her for planning his death, she asks. “So, who sent you?” His mouth shuts with a click. “You know who sent us,” Thorvald says. “You should be dead Brynie.”

           “It’s Brynhilda.” She snaps. The men chuckle. “We don’t have to be afraid of you,” Erik mocks. “You aren’t our king’s little pet anymore. You’re just some slave.”

“Didn’t Helgi teach you anything?” She laughs, fondling the rock in her hands. “You always have to be afraid of me.”

“Well Helgi isn’t here, is he?” Thorvald sneers. Brynhilda chuckles and shakes her head. “No, of course he isn’t.” The tone of her voice tells Ivar she doesn’t believe them. Decided that she isn’t trying to hold him for ransom, he begins to look around. Where could this mysterious Helgi be? Just as his eyes settle on a strange spot in the undergrowth, a man bursts from it, roaring and rushing at Brynhilda.

           Ivar watches Brynhilda turn her head ever so slightly, smile, and then take off before the man Ivar presumes is Helgi on her. She’s heading straight for Thorvald and Helgi is gaining fast. Ivar shouts at Brynhilda to move, but she won’t listen to him. Helgi lifts his axe and is ready to strike when she takes a sudden turn left, jamming and arrow into Erik’s neck. Blood spurts from his neck, covering Brynhilda’s face. Just before Helgi’s axe connects with Thorvald’s chest, Thorvald moves, saving himself from injury.

           Ivar sees Brynhilda take Erik’s axe and throw it, hitting Thorvald in the arm, the man screams. Still distracted by his friend, Brynhilda tackles Helgi to the ground. She takes the rock previously meant for Ivar, and bashes Helgi’s face. The sickening crunch echoes across the field.

           Something takes over Brynhilda. Previously, her fighting had been…graceful, to say the least, calm and calculated, this was simple savagery. Ivar looks on, absolutely fascinated. This is the creature he saw behind her eyes that day at Floki’s, this is the woman that had been ready to kill him just moments before the men showed up. She was beautiful.

           Ivar manages to tear his eyes away from her when he sees something glint in the sun. “Brynhilda! Watch out!” He yells, crawling towards her in a frenzy.

           Thorvald raises his axe and swings it, but not before Brynhilda dodges. Ivar can’t tell if the axe connected or not, but it seems it doesn’t matter. She gets up and sends a quick kick to his belly. The moment he’d doubled over she brings two fists down on the back of his neck. The moment he’s on the ground, Brynhilda let’s out a ferocious scream that curdles Ivar’s blood. It startles some ravens in a nearby tree.            

           Ivar begins to slowly approach her, not entirely sure he should. “Brynhilda?” He calls softly, not wanting to agitate her. Her eyes snap to him and he feels his heart stop. There’s unmistakable joy in them, despite her unsmiling features. She’s covered in blood, and he feels a strange urge to clean it up. “You have an arrow in your chest.” He tells her. She looks down. “Come, I’ll take you to Floki and-”

“No,” She says, looking around her. She rips breaks off the arrow and throws it aside. “We need to get rid of Erik and Helgi.” Her eyes zero in on him. “Give me your bindings.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to find out what Thorvald and his brothers knew, what they told everyone. Give me your bindings so I can tie him up.”

“Go find some rope!” He argues. Brynhilda, still in no mood for his shit, grabs him by his shirt and lifts him up to face her. “Ivar, I will kill you if you don’t cooperate, and I will make it look as though it was Helgi’s fault.” She brings him so close their noses touch. “Give. Me. Your. Bindings.” Ivar wants to close the gap between them, but he doesn’t get the chance, instead, she drops him, then looks down at him expectantly. “Look, I’ll let you torture Thorvald and then give them back to you.”

“Torture?” Ivar says. “You don’t think Thorvald is going to give up his information, freely do you?” Brynhilda asks. “He’ll need to be persuaded.” She bends down and begins to untie his bindings. “The river is near here,” She mumbles. “We can weigh their bodies down with rocks and shove them in there.”

“Shouldn’t we just leave them for the animals?”

“Too risky, someone might see them and report the bodies, then there will be an investigation. I can’t allow that to happen.” Ivar looks at his slave as she begins to take off Thorvald’s clothing, his bindings in her mouth. “Why are you doing that?”

“To make him suffer. It’s cold out, and he’ll freeze soon enough, especially when night falls. Besides, I can sell the clothing.”

“Why would you need to sell his clothing?” Brynhilda glares at him. “Has anyone ever told you, you talk too much?”

“I still want to know why you need to sell his clothing.”

“For money you moron, that’s why.”

“Why does a slave need money?” Ivar mumbles. Suddenly, it dawns on him. “You can’t buy your freedom, I won’t allow it.” Brynhilda stops what she’s doing and gives him a long searching look. “I hope you don’t honestly believe I’ll be your slave forever.”

“Of course, you will!” He snarls, getting angry with her. “You are my slave! I own you!” Brynhilda shoots up. “No one owns me!” She yells. “I own myself! Get that through the thick skull of yours before I crack it open.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I just tried to bludgeon you to death with a rock.” Ivar presses his lips together, unable to argue that point. He’d figure out some way to make her stay.

           He watches Brynhilda continue her work, setting Thorvald’s clothing aside and weighing down Helgi and Erik’s clothing down with rocks. She drags the bodies, and Thorvald, out of the field and next to a tree. Throvald begins to stir just as she’s starting the fire. By this time, Brynhilda is in an even worse mood. The front and back of her dress soaked with her own blood. Sweat drips from her brow despite the cool air. The more Thorvald comes to himself, the more he begins to struggle.

           “You bitch!” He snarls. Ivar watches as she coaxes the fire to life, ignoring Thorvald’s curses. “I’m going to get out of this, and I’m going to kill you!” He says. Brynhilda heaves a sigh and sits down next to Ivar, wincing. “Let’s be honest,” She says, cracking the knuckles in her fingers. “If you could kill me, it would’ve happened years ago.” This shuts Thorvald up. Brynhilda laughs and smiles. “Yeah, I know about the poisoning, I always knew, but Boggvir needed fodder for his army, and you were the dumbest of the bunch.”

“Odin spared me and my brothers!” Thorvald says confidently. This time, Brynhilda lets out a genuine laugh. “Or maybe he just waited for the right time to give you to me.” He snarls at her. “Now, now, none of that.” She looks to Ivar, smirking. She’s in her element, relaxed, easy. This is familiar to her, this is what she’s good at. “You’ve seen my work,” She continues. “You know how this goes. You tell me what I want, and I kill you quickly, you waste my time…” She trails off. Ivar is excited, he wants to do a good job of this, wants to impress Brynhilda, prove he’s not some cripple to be overlooked.

           “You don’t do torture,” Thorvald sneers. “Remember? We had to do it for you.” Brynhilda gets up, grunting with the effort. “You’re right,” She says, “I don’t do torture.” She turns to Ivar, smiling gently at him. He smiles back up at her, and shivers when she runs her finger through his hair. “He does.” Both of them look at Thorvald, wicked smiles matching. This causes the man to squirm.

           “Now, start talking.” She orders. Thorvald doesn’t even hesitate. “What do you want to know?” He asks. “Who sent you?”

“No one.” Brynhilda raises and eyebrow and looks at Ivar, the boy begins to crawl towards Thorvald. “No one! I swear it! We saw you in the market the other day! We weren’t sure it was even you at first, but then someone called your name and Helgi knew.” Brynhilda nods. “Does anyone else but you know I’m alive?” He shakes his head. “No, no, Boggvir and Eylaug think you’re dead.”

“My home, does it still stand?” Thorvald shakes his head. “Eylaug had it torn down and Boggvir had your animals sacrificed to Odin.” Brynhilda let’s out a vicious growl. “Of course he did, no doubt trying to ease his guilt.” She turns from him and begins pacing. “What was he doing the last time you saw him?”

“He was preparing for battle.”

“Another one?” Thorvald nods eagerly. He senses Brynhilda’s extreme irritation, and worries she’ll go back on her promise. “Why? With who?”

“With some of the other Jarls,” Brynhilda pauses. “The other Jarls? Why? They made an oath never to attack each other.”

“After your sacrifice, the some argued that it shouldn’t have been done.”

“They argued AFTER I was sacrificed?” Brynhilda roars, turning to him. Thorvald whimpers. “They didn’t argue before!”

“Of course they did!” Thorvald stutters. “A great many did b-but,”

“But what?”

“B-but you were g-getting s-stronger a-and we were all t-terrified of you. We didn’t want you to take over.”

           Brynhilda freezes entirely. Ivar watches her, watches the gears in her head turn. He wants to make a comment, but refrains from doing so. This is getting good, he’s learning more and more about his slave than he ever thought possible. Finally. Brynhilda turns to Thorvald, face unreadable. “With what army would I take over with?” She says throwing her hands to the side. “With what support would I rule?”

           A heavy quietude hangs over the three of them. “By Odin you really don’t realize, do you?” Thorvald whispers. “What?” Brynhilda says. “Realize what?”

“Boggvir’s men don’t follow him because they’re loyal to him, they follow him because you do Brynhilda.”

“What?” Brynhilda’s face screws into one of confusion. “You are nearly untouchable on the battlefield, you’ve taken down thousands of men with your bare hands alone! You have the strength of the gods you’re descended from, and have led us to one victory after another. Everyone knew you were the one with the true power. You could ask armies to rise today and they’d follow you to Helheim itself.”

           Ivar looks at Brynhilda critically. Really? This woman had been that important to someone? He had to wonder what happened that led up to her sacrifice. “So,” She growls, finally getting over her shock. “What you’re telling me is that Boggvir tried to have me sacrificed because he was afraid I’d take over?”

“Boggvir was against the idea from the very beginning. He told us you’d never take over from him, you were loyal. You were like his own child. Eylaug and others pressured him into it.”

“Others? What others?”

“The Jarls that were for your sacrifice.” Ivar watched as Brynhilda ground her teeth together. “Just the jarls?” She says, teeth clenched. Thorvald shakes his head, knowing he’s angered her beyond repair now. “I need names, all of them, now.” Thorvald whimpers but begins to blubber the names out. It’s roughly ten, including the two she just killed. When he’s done, he carries on like an idiot. Begging for his life, remind Brynhilda she was merciful. Ivar senses the charge in the air and it excites him. He just wants to see her kill someone again.

           Instead, she surprises him. “Ivar,” She commands. “Yes?”

“Kill him,” She orders, bending down to pick up a weighted body. “And make sure it’s painful.”


	10. Battle Plans

            The moment Brynhilda had stumbled in, Ivar in tow, the girls had stopped what they were doing. All she had to do was ask for help before the girls hopped to it, fussing over her in the midst of getting a bath ready. Ivar can’t help but smile as he watches Brynhilda order the girls about. Order wasn’t the right word. She simply asked for something, and they gave it to her. He had to wonder if life had always been like this for her.

            Brynhilda sits, eating gruel the slaves saved for her. She’s tense, obviously in pain from the way she’s leaning to one side. It isn’t until the smallest slave stops rushing about that Brynhilda’s posture softens. “Rhona,” She calls, “What is it?” The child is maybe eight, maybe nine, Ivar doesn’t care to think about it too long. The little girl’s face scrunches up, and tears begin to fall. Ivar stifles his laughter as a look of utter panic crossed Brynhilda’s face. “What is it? Why are you crying? Did someone say something to you?” She puts her bowl to the side, poised to do…something.

            Rhona shakes her head, then begins to wail. Brynhilda is up like a shot. For one moment, Ivar thinks Brynhilda is going to slap her. Serves the little irritant right, disturbing the relative peace with her caterwauling. Instead, Brynhilda kneels in front of the child and begins to soothe her. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t know she could be so soft. “Hush little Rhona,” Brynhilda whispers, wiping at the child’s face. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!” Rhona wails. “You almost died!” She flings herself at Brynhilda, who grunts. The way Brynhilda holds her hands out in front of her, unsure of what to do, is comical. Ivar definitely lets out a snigger. Slowly, she wraps her arms around the tiny girl and picks her up. “Rhona, hush, I didn’t even come close to dying.” She makes a motion to the others to continue with their chores as she paces back and forth with the child in her arms.

            Rhona pulls back, still crying. “You didn’t?” She whimpers. Brynhilda scoffs. “A hundred men couldn’t kill me.”

“What about a hundred and one?” Ivar teased. This upsets Rhona once more, and her wailing begins anew. Brynhilda shoots Ivar a glare, who manages to look halfway apologetic. After a few, tense moments, Brynhilda calms Rhona’s cries into mere whimpers. There’s something about the scene that perturbs Ivar. He begins to squirm in his seat and is close to leaving when Brynhilda passes Rhona off to Vigdis. “Go,” She says. The girls look at her, confused for a moment. “You’re all needed in the great hall for tonight’s feast. Go.”

“What about you?” Sigrid whispers. Brynhilda gives her a smile. “It’s just an arrow to the shoulder, I’m hardly going to die.” She shoos the girls out without so much as another word. The moment the door closes she begins to undress, heedless of Ivar’s presence. Early on in her disrobing he decides if she’s comfortable showing off to him, he’s comfortable staring.

            Ivar’s eyes don’t wander past the arrow hole for a long while. The blood on her back and shoulder captivates him. The dark red splashes on her rich skin stirs something within him, so much so, he has to suppress a groan. The movement that distracts him from his staring is when she beds to drop her pants. He can now take in all of her. Scars crisscross her dark skin, telling stories he yearns to hear. The largest one is the one that runs down her spine.

            At the sound of him crawling off his seat, Brynhilda turns slightly to watch him, ready to defend herself if needed. There’s a sort of reverent look on his face that heats her cheeks. No one has ever looked at her the way Ivar is looking at her now. He reaches her quickly. Settling behind her, he lifts his hand to touch her scar. He stops, just before he can touch her skin. Looking at her for approval to touch it, she turns from him, denying such a pleasure. Ivar is a little hurt as she slips into the tub.

            “Do me a favor and take down my hair.” He rolls his jaw. “I’m the one who gives orders.”

“I’m not giving you orders, I’m asking you to do me a favor.”

“Do it yourself.” She turns to glare at him. “I can’t exactly lift my arm over my head, can I?” He simply glares back at her, not understanding the root of his irritation. “It seems I forgot I was talking to the most selfish brat in Midguard.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are,” Brynhilda growls, twisting her body in an uncomfortable position to get at her hair. “Stop,” He snaps, wincing at the rush of blood that comes from her shoulder. “I’ll do it.” Brynhilda does what he says and settles back into the tub. “Thank you.” She whispers. Ivar merely grunts.

            Despite the crud tangled throughout her curly locks, Brynhilda’s hair is soft, and smells of the forest. It’s much longer than he anticipates, reaching almost to the floor as he undoes her braids bit by bit. The moment he’s done, Brynhilda dunks herself underneath the water, holding for a few seconds.  She leans back when she resurfaces. He crawls to the side of the tub, leaning his back against it. “How did you get the scar on your back?” He asks quietly. “Boggvir Blood Eagled me.” She says it with such a matter-of-fact tone Ivar has to look at her to make double sure she isn’t lying.

            Her face is pure hatred, and he’s glad it isn’t directed at him. “I gave that bastard ten years of my life, I made him king, and he repaid me, by trying to kill me. His best warrior.”

“And you plan on killing him.” Ivar says. Brynhilda’s smile sends shivers down his spine. That new feeling stirs his gut again. She leans forward. “I’m going to destroy him,” She says. “I will ruin him, everything he holds dear will be mine for the taking. I will cut out his heart out and burn it.” A shiver runs down Ivar’s spine.

            Brynhilda begins washing her hair, jaw clenching and unclenching as she moves her arm. “Let me do that, stupid.” Ivar grumbles. She stops, watching as he drags a chair towards the bath and settles in it. He leans forward and begins to wash her hair.  “What about the others?” He asks. She waves her hands in the air. “The only one I’d have actual trouble with is Falki.”

“Who’s he?”

“She is one of the people I helped to make a jarl.”  Ivar spends a long time working Brynhilda’s hair before he speaks. “I don’t understand,” he says. “You are apparently this all-powerful woman, descended from the gods, tell me, why did you put so many others in power, but take none for yourself?” Brynhilda throws water over the shoulder, rinsing it out as best she can. “You took your time with your kill today,” She begins. “You drew it out as long as you could. Was it pleasurable, taking his life?” Ivar nods, the grunts when he realizes she can’t see him. She smiles at him. “It always is.” She whispers.

            She cranes her neck to look at him, a completely new look overcoming her. It’s wild, ethereal. Ivar shifts, taking all that long hair from the tub and putting it on his lap to comb. He’s utterly captivated by her look. “It’s even better when you’re on the battlefield.” She begins. “The only thing standing between you and them; empty space.” She waves her hand out in front of her. “There’s a charge in the air, your heart begins to race, the tension is so thick, it’s palpable. And then,” she snaps her fingers, “the command to charge. You rush in, it takes hours, days, to reach the opposition. And when you do.”

            She grabs the edge of the tub, her crazed smile making her look like some sort of demon. “It’s glorious, such chaos. All you can focus on is the killing blow. Intelligence and planning may win battles, but instinct wins fights.” She twists, standing on her knees in the tub. She takes his face in between her rough hands and presses her forehead against his. He can do nothing but grip the edge of the tub. “I love fighting,” she confesses, running her thumbs over his cheeks. “From beginning to end. But my favorite part is when it’s all finished. You stand, victorious in a sea of the dead and dying. Covered in blood. Nothing makes you feel more alive.”

            The fever passes over Brynhilda has quickly as it had taken hold of her. She lets go of his face and leans back in the tub again. Her wolfish features settling. “My entire point is, I am a warrior, not a ruler. You just sit there and make decisions all day long. I’d go crazy within the hour.”

            Ivar watches her for a long while, then takes her hair back into his lap. In his minds eye, he can see it. She stands in front of a thousand faceless men and women. A picture of calm before the storm. Then, she screams, breaking the silence, rushing forward for the kill. Before he can get too lost, he has to know, “Who are you going to kill first?”

“Falki.” Ivar frowns. “But you said she would be the toughest to kill, why wouldn’t you save her for last?”

“Precisely because she is the toughest to kill.” Brynhilda explains. “You’ve thought a lot about this.” He mutters. “I spent an entire winter and most of a spring recuperating, training. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and to plan.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d start with this…Falki woman.” Brynhilda cracks open an eye. “When you’re getting ready to go into battle, you want to take out the strongest person first, usually.” Ivar nods, shifting again to ease some of the pain in his legs. “Sometimes, if you’re in a hard position, you have to weigh the benefits and the risks.”

“You are one woman, Falki has an army.” Brynhilda frowns. “What’s your point?” Ivar splashes some water on her face. “How do you presume to get to someone with an army.” Brynhilda huffs. “Falki thinks me dead. She won’t be on her guard. I know the shit hole she lives in better than she wants to admit.”

“You will sneak in.” Ivar mutters, getting the last tangles out of her hair. Brynhilda smiles. “Yes, and I will beat her to death with my own hands. Then, I will put her head on a spike and gain control of the most well supplied army under Boggvir’s rule.”

“And then what?” Brynhilda growls. “You are very nosy.” She snaps. “I just want to make sure my slave brings honor to my name when she’s freed.” Brynhilda laughs, the most genuine laugh he’s ever heard from her.

            They don’t say anything for a long time. Ivar sits still, thinking about the trouble Brynhilda will bring  while she soaks. Every once in a while, she will splash water on her body. She breaks the silence. “My parents didn’t sell me.”

“What?” Ivar mutters, looking at her. “My parents. They didn’t sell me. They were killed.” Ivar frowns. “What’s your point?” He can’t figure out where this is coming from. “My point,” She says, glaring at him. “Is that I had very loving parents. And I don’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise.”

            Ivar begins to argue, but she holds a hand up. “You’re going to ruin our moment. Just leave.” Ivar huffs, but crawls from his chair and out into the night. It’s good that he’s leaving, he has to figure out the ache in his chest.  


	11. Into The Night

You would think the news of her long-lost husband returning would be all Aslaug thought about, but it isn’t. Instead, she watches as Brynhilda is immediately surrounded by pigs. The young girl groans and fusses at them, asking them to move back. As if they can understand her, they do, making room for her to lay down their slop. More interested in Brynhilda than in the food, they crowd around her once again, snorting, tails waggling. Her favorite phrase “By Odin!” reaches the queen’s ears.

There’s a look to those descended from the gods. Easily identifiable if you know what to look for. Ragnar had it, she has it, her son’s have, and Brynhilda has it. Few live up to their potential. When she looks at Brynhilda, an unidentifiable feeling churns in her gut. It’s not one of unease, just one of…knowledge. Brynhilda will rise to the challenge, she will achieve great things.

           Aslaug hugs herself tightly, more to guard against the oncoming vision than the cold. Before it begins she knows what she’ll see. It’s the same one she’s been having all month long. It’s never happened before, she has a vision once, and then it never returns to her. No, this one is recurring. As though the gods sense the Queen’s reluctance to play her part.

           There’s a field, covered in the dead and the dying. She can smell blood in the air. Ivar is on a chariot, hooping and hollering, clearly having won the day. Brynhilda is jumping up and down, cheering, yelling. She carries a shield with a great bear painted on it, a wolf pelt is tied securely around her shoulders, and her sword, nearly brand-new, has runes up and down the blade.

           It’s the crazed look in Ivar’s eye that makes her uneasy. She knows Ivar is unstable, but that didn’t mean she wanted to face the reality of it. She looks to Brynhilda, that girl and her son share crazed glances. For a moment, Aslaug can’t tell who is who. Instinctively, she knows they feed off each other, make each other crazy. She resolves to warn Brynhilda and Ivar to stay away from each other, but the atmosphere changes instantly.

           Ivar’s face softens considerably as Brynhilda approaches the chariot. She jumps up, brings his face in her hands. In the strangeness that only dreams allow, Aslaug can see both their faces at once. Both are filled with love, and passion for one another. She closes her eyes, and her dream ends. Opening them again, she sees Brynhilda is petting the pigs, who’s tails are wagging in appreciation. The ravens that tend to surround her, are ever watchful. Aslaug steels herself, her resolve crumbling. How can she deny her son such happiness? Pressing her lips together, she calls out; “Brynhilda!” The girl’s head jerks up.

           Aslaug waves for her to come inside, then disappears into the shadows. Brynhilda follows orders remarkably well…as long as they don’t come from Ivar. She supposed she should be happy that Brynhilda just doesn’t bend to Ivar’s will. He needed someone who was worthy, someone who was strong enough to stand his tantrums. Who better than such a shieldmaiden?

           She didn’t have to wait long for Brynhilda to come inside. Aslaug motioned for Brynhilda to follow her. Entering her room, she stands next to her little table, the one with all the jewelry and finery on it. “Come,” She says. “Sit.” She watches as Brynhilda hesitates, but ultimately does what she’s told. As the smell of pigs’ assaults Aslaug’s nose, she swallows the lump in her throat.

           Aslaug watches Brynhilda carefully as she takes the girl’s braids out. “I’ve always wanted a daughter.” Aslaug admits. She takes some hay from Brynhilda’s hair and reaches for a brush. “Sadly, it just wasn’t part of my destiny.” Brynhilda remains silent. Aslaug reminds herself that the girl is dangerous, she needs to be careful.

           “What we want is rarely our destiny.” Brynhilda mutters. “I couldn’t agree more.” Aslaug says. Brynhilda’s hair is expertly cared for, long, soft, and curly, Aslaug takes the time to enjoy brushing through the dark locks. “Your highness?” Brynhilda says, softly. Aslaug makes a noise to indicate she’s listening. “Please, just say what you want to say. I don’t like messing about.” Aslaug smiles. “I appreciate your forwardness.” She says truthfully. Nevertheless, she finishes braiding Brynhilda’s hair, putting a brooch in it for effect.

           She steps back and turns Brynhilda’s face towards her. Appraising it, Aslaug found Brynhilda to be rather beautiful. Piercing green eyes, smooth skin, the girl looked perfect, to say the least. “You’re a very beautiful child.” She mutters. “Thank you,” Brynhilda responds, shifting in her seat. Aslaug lets her chin go and walks to the other side of the room.

           She pours two cups of mead, motioning for the girl to come and get her own. Brynhilda does so. “My son is fond of you.” Aslaug says, sitting on a bench. She watches as Brynhilda grabs the cup and takes a sip. “They all are, you’re going to have to be more specific.” She says. Aslaug smiles. “Ivar,” she corrects. “He’s most fond of you.” Brynhilda snorts, but doesn’t answer. Aslaug continues, “How do you feel about him?”

“Something tells me it doesn’t matter.” Brynhilda says, cautiously. Aslaug gives her another smile. “I’m not going to force you to marry him.” The girl remains silent, taking another tiny sip from her cup. “I ask you again, how do you feel about him?” Brynhilda puts her cup down and, looking Aslaug straight in the eye, says, “I want to smash his face in with a rock.” Aslaug’s smile drops, that was not the confession she expected. “He’s loud, and irritating, childish. And when he feels as though you’ve slighted him, he just has to get back at you. He’s a miserable little shit and anything I can do to piss him off makes my days as his slave worth it.”

           Aslaug makes a noise in the back of her throat. She’s beginning to think maybe her vision is wrong when she notices Brynhilda’s face soften. “But?” Aslaug prompts. Brynhilda heaves a deep sigh. “But, I still want to kiss him, to hold him.” This last part is so soft, Aslaug almost misses it. The vision hadn’t been wrong. Aslaug smiles in triumph. “Good,” Aslaug says. Brynhilda frowns. “Why is that good?”

“Because it solidifies my decision to free you.”

“What?” Aslaug lets out a little laugh. “I’m freeing you. I don’t want my son to be with a slave.” She watches as Brynhilda’s face goes through a myriad of emotions. Excitement, doubt, confusion, then a few other unnamable ones. “But Margrethe sleeps with them all.” She says lamely. “Sleeping with a slave and being with a slave is different.” Brynhilda’s brows furrow, her mouth works up and down. She shakes her head and leaves her thought unspoken. “Thank you,” she finally mutters. Aslaug nods. “I have a dress for you.” She says, motioning to a pile of clothing. Brynhilda looks at it, but doesn’t take it. “What will you be doing with your new-found freedom?”

           Brynhilda shrugs, puts the goblet on the table, and reaches for her new clothes. “Thank you,” She mutters again, not sure what to do now. “Perhaps Ivar will want to know of your new status?” Aslaug suggests. Brynhilda makes a noise, bows to Aslaug, and rushes from to room. Shifting in her seat, Aslaug looks around her empty room. Freeing Brynhilda has done nothing to slacken the unease clouding her mind. There’s more to come, Aslaug is sure of it.

*

           Brynhilda quite honestly can’t wait to tell Ivar his own mother freed her. The look on his stupid, pretty face will be worth it. She’ll rub it in, tease him, maybe kiss him. She feels her face heat up. Aslaug had said Ivar was fond of her. She didn’t think it was a lie, but she didn’t want to believe it either. Men had found her attractive, yes, and she’d lain with plenty of people before, but for someone to actually be fond of her? Is it possible?

           She bursts through the door of the slave house, then stops dead in her tracks. The girls are gathered around Margrethe, twisting her hair into pretty patterns, bathing her. “What’s going on here?” She asks. The girls freeze, Margrethe doesn’t even look up from the floor. It’s obvious she’s terrified. Brynhilda approaches Margrethe slowly. They haven’t really bonded over the months she’s been here, not like with the children, but Brynhilda still cared. She put a rough hand on the blonde’s shoulder.

           “Margrethe?” Brynhilda says. “It’s Ivar,” She whispers, looking up at Brynhilda. “He…” She swallows thickly. “In the cabin.” She says. “Tonight.” Brynhilda nods, immediately understanding. Her blood boils, but she crouches down to Margrethe’s level. What can she do to stop the desires of a spoiled brat? “Would you,” She begins, not entirely sure where she should go with her offer. “Do you want me to go with you?” Margrethe shakes her head, grabbing Brynhilda’s wrist. “He’d be so angry,” She whispers. “Well, yeah.” Brynhilda admits. “But it’s not like he’d hurt you if I was in there.”

“It’s true,” Sigrid whispers. “She almost killed him one night for hitting me.” Brynhilda tries her best not to smirk. That had been one satisfying argument. “I can wait outside.” Brynhilda suggests. “If you scream, I’d run in and pull him off you.” Margrethe shakes her head. “It’ll be ok,” Margrethe whispers. Brynhilda doubted it, but she didn’t contradict the woman. “Here,” Brynhilda says, getting up, “I’ll help you get ready too.”

           It takes hours to help Margrethe. They comb through her hair, twist it prettily, and scent her skin. Brynhilda gives her the dress Aslaug had just given her, it was simple, but prettier than anything the others had. Shortly after they were done, Hvitserk and Sigurd came to pick her up. Brynhilda stops her for a moment, then gives her a tight hug. “I can still go with you.” She whispers. “I can do this,” Margrethe whispers. “I’ll be fine.”

           As the pull away, Brynhilda doubts things will be fine. There’s a charge in the atmosphere that reeks of change. She can’t help but wonder if its for better or worse.

*

           Brynhilda is irritated with the weight on top of her, but Rhona absolutely insists on sleeping in the same cot. Ever since her run in with an arrow. Honestly, you’d think the girl would be over it by now. Brynhilda shifts and manages to slide Rhona off her. Tucking the child in, she begins to pace. The irritation isn’t gone, only intensified. She forces herself to pace slowly, she doesn’t want to wake the other girls. But she can’t sit still.

           It’s her own fault really. Ivar was reasonably attractive, and he presented a challenge. Damned if Brynhilda didn’t like men that challenged her. This is what happens when you get close to people. She stops pacing. That sounded an awful lot like Boggvir. She stops the growl rising in her throat. Her mother said it was people that made the world go round.

           She fiddles with the ring on her finger. She hadn’t thought about her mother and father in years. Was part of the reason she was betrayed because they were mad at her? Had she shamed them in some way. She sits on a chair to mull it over. Her parent’s teachings were fundamentally different from Boggvir’s. Boggvir was a harsh man, brought up in a harsh world. His only real love was killing people. Her parents however…

           She didn’t want to think of them right now. Her heart still ached for them, for their guidance. It doesn’t do well to dwell on the past, she thinks, it’s behind her, she must look ahead. Look to defeating her enemies. She’s still determined to start with Falki. She must, Falki is her hardest enemy.

           She’s distracting herself with battle plans, and has nearly fallen asleep when the door opens. Brynhilda is up in an instant, ready to defend the girls if needed. It’s just Margrethe. Brynhilda rushes to her, gathering the blonde in her arms. “Did he?” Brynhilda leaves the sentence unfinished, not sure she wants to know the answer. Margrethe shakes her head. “No, he just,” She sniffs. “He just yelled at me.” Brynhilda shuts the door behind her tightly. Margrethe collapses on her bed. Brynhilda rushes about the longhouse, quietly gathering food and drink, bringing it to Margrethe. “You can tell me,” Brynhilda whispers. “If you need to. I’d kill him, I swear. Ivar Lothbrok would be no more.”

           Margrethe takes the food from her, but shakes her head. “No, he just,” She sniffs, “He just yelled at me. Yelled that…”

“I’d kill him if he called you a name too.” Brynhilda says, trying to be helpful. “He said I wasn’t you.” Margrethe finally manages. Brynhilda has trouble comprehending this. What did she have to do with anything? “He was so mad,” She sobs, leaning into Brynhilda. “I thought he was going to kill me. He yelled for so long.” Brynhilda wraps and arm around Margrethe, uncomfortable. “You need to go to him.” She says. Brynhilda snorts. Desperately, Margrethe fists Brynhilda’s shirt. The girl’s strength is alarming. “Go to him,” She says desperately. “Please, he might come in here and, and.” Another sob.

“Ok,” Brynhilda says, recognizing the best thing to do with Margrethe in such a panic is to do what she says. “OK, I’ll go.” She manages to untangle herself from Margrethe. With one last look at the women in the little hut, Brynhilda opens the door and slips out into the night.  


End file.
